A Proposition
by Past Witness
Summary: Robin wanted only one thing in this wretched world.
1. A Proposition

Robin watched as Lucina leveled the golden sword at his chest.

"Dastard," she said. Her eyes darted around the shattered atrium. "Where is this place? What do you think to do, bringing me here?"

Robin idled in the shade of a leaning pillar, a warm breeze at his back. Sunbeams cast through gaps in the roofing and low-sagging rafters, harshly exposing upturned tiles. Dust motes curled and drifted in the light. Strewn along the floor were scatterings of faded red clay that might have once formed a mural, but the image had long crumbled beyond recognition.

"We're in some nameless ruins in western Plegia," Robin said, "far out enough that distractions won't find us for a while. It's rude to interrupt someone while he's talking, and you and your friends wouldn't stop trying to kill me."

"For good reason," she said.

Lucina took a half-step. Motes swirled around the blade.

"The truth is that I wanted to talk," Robin said. He held up a hand, but it did nothing to dissuade Lucina's threatening stance or the scowl creasing her brow. "You're here now, so you might as well hear me out."

"I have nothing to parley with you."

"Yes, you do."

Lucina crossed the chamber in four strides. The sunbeams reflected white off her golden circlet, and her shoulderguards gleamed. Crimson cloak hems fluttered behind knee-high boots. When she stepped into the shade, the Fang of Naga cast a wicked underglow on her intent face. Lucina's eyes glimmered like chips of sapphire. The harp-shaped Brand in her left pupil seemed to pulse light.

"I could've harmed you, but I didn't," Robin said. "At the very least, I could've taken your sword, but I didn't."

He thought he saw a flicker of hesitation. Then it vanished. Lucina examined him coldly, her fingers tightening around Falchion's cloth-bound grip.

"I of all people don't need your twisted mercy," Lucina said. "Countless others you never spared! And now you mock me with this?"

She raised over her shoulder the sword. The edge blazed white.

A pressure began to grip his frontal lobe, and Robin squinted. Curse the Divine Dragon and her magic. What sword needed to glow with the radiance of the sun? What business did anything in this world have, to be so shiny? He began to regret not confiscating Falchion.

"I said, listen to me—"

"Face me and answer for your crimes, Grima!"

The sword arced through the air.

Instinctively, he thrust forward a hand. Searing pain sliced across his palm, and Robin's breath hissed through his teeth. Hot liquid seeped down his wrist. Robin closed his fingers around Falchion's foible. It cut deeper. Fellblood trickled in veins down the blessed metal, sizzling and curdling.

He wrenched Falchion away from his collar. The blade slid off his hand, scoring deep lines. Blood dripped between his fingers, splattering at his boots.

Robin's vision swam red. He closed his fist, feeling the skin of his palm peel back and bubble with blisters.

"I am Robin," he said softly.

"You are not." Her voice sounded like a far-off echo, but the accusation was clear. "You wear his face, but you are not him."

"I am myself." Pain rang in the marrow of his bones, radiating up the side of his jaw. He clenched his teeth.

"Oh, is that what you told yourself when you murdered my father?"

Robin flinched. A strange pain coiled around his stomach: slithering, heavy, and somehow worse than Falchion's cut. "Chrom was—Chrom knew. I didn't want to kill him."

"But you did."

She lifted her chin, and stared him down. Lucina had meant to wound him with those words, but Robin wondered if speaking them hadn't hurt her all the more. The pain etching her face made a poor impression of contempt.

"You're unforgivable," she said.

"Indeed." He glanced at the bloody gravel by his boots, blinking the haze from his eyes. "I'm not asking for your forgiveness."

Silence fell between them.

"I know not your objective here," she said, louder. "But I can tell you this. No matter what you may do to me, no matter what you may do to us all, Ylisse will not break."

"That's fine and all, considering I just wanted to talk. Like I said before, you know."

Her mouth opened in a retort, but he spoke faster: "Look. You clearly love this world, much more than I do. I've decided you can have it."

Her lips pressed together in a thin line.

"You think the world is yours to give, then," Lucina said.

"In as far as the world is mine to swathe in shadows. Yes."

"I suppose that makes for a fine gesture of goodwill." She eyed him with distaste. "A world not basked in shadow. It's a pitiable state of affairs when even that constitutes something positive."

"Well, I would consider it more of a promise. And not only that, we can end the war if you want."

"Do you expect me to believe that? I think you have a revelry in the war," Lucina said finally. "Remind me, who set torch to Themis Garrison and trapped the doors? Who routed the Galland Knights and had the men butchered as their backs were turned? Hundreds were killed by your decrees; thousands more lost someone dear to them."

"I won't pretend to be blameless, but this war leaves few of us truly innocent. I've lost many a good general and a good man to your allies as well."

"Yes. And as if their service wasn't enough, you raised your men—and mine—from the dead. Corpse soldiers from carnage to beget more carnage."

"It was either that, or see my country destroyed. Plegia might be a wasteland, but I owe at least a responsibility to have it not ground into dust. Before you say your people would do no such thing, remember, this war began with your grandfather's crusade—and I assure you that his zealots didn't disappear with his station."

Lucina bit her lip. _She knew._ The military reports she received were likely worded to tweak the events of battle, guided by conniving generals. Robin wasn't the only one who held court with snakes.

"And why did they not, indeed?" she asked. As he thought, Lucina didn't deny it. "Hostilities might well have ended with Exalt Emmeryn's efforts, if not for her untimely demise. A martyr to fan the flames anew. Who but a warmonger was threatened by the peace she sought?" Lucina looked him in the eye. "Hardly would it surprise me, if you were the one who had orchestrated my aunt's death."

Say what else she might, this was one of the few things Lucina could not, would not challenge.

"I defended Emmeryn that night, and you know it. Or will you ignore that, too, for the sake of your vendetta?"

Her grip on Falchion wavered, but her gaze did not.

"Enough," Robin said, relaxing his shoulders. "It's useless to blame one another now. We can't control everything that goes on around us; not even I can, if you would believe that. But listen. You can have the end of the war if you wish. As for me, there is only one thing I want in this wretched world."

"That is? Annihilation? Ruin?" Her mouth twisted. "Or how about destruction?"

"Simpler," he said. "Be my consort, Lucina."

Lucina's eyes widened, disbelieving. Then her face darkened like storm clouds.

"No."

"It's not a suggestion."

"Then, do you think to threaten me, Fell Dragon?" She spoke the words with such venom that they stung like a nick from that blasted Fang.

He sighed. "I could. I don't want to."

Lucina studied him with suspicion, but at least she didn't raise her sword again. Robin folded his hands, blood and all, into his sleeves. He stared back impassively.

"My answer is no," she said.

"Why?"

"You come to me with this ludicrous proposition and wonder how I can possibly refuse." Lucina's mouth formed a flat line. "You answer why."

"Fine. That's easy enough."

He unfolded his sleeves, and Lucina tensed as if he were revealing a dagger. Robin flapped his robes about to show that they were empty. Besides the teleportation rod that had since disintegrated, he had brought nothing.

"I would've picked some daisies, but circumstances leave me empty-handed. Ah well, I think it's too saccharine a gesture for my taste. Flowers and I don't get along."

"I don't see what flowers have to do with this, but make your piece."

He smiled, and hoped that warmth reached his eyes. Smiling without looking malicious these days was hard, what with his crimson pupils. From the twitch in her mouth, Robin guessed that it didn't work.

"Remember the day before our final battle against Gangrel?"

"Yes. What about it?" She looked unimpressed.

"When we marched upon the Border Wastes side-by-side, I came to realize that, no matter how I tried not to, no matter how I denied it, I had fallen in love with you. I had fallen in love with your devotion and your unerring resolve to face down any foe. Ever since then, it has been my constant regret that I never got the chance to tell you how I felt.

"Even now, I'm in love with… how you scowl at me and try to kill me? It's true that recent times haven't been favourable to us. But nothing, not even my distaste for this world can stop or change my feelings. I'm still hopelessly in love with you, Lucina."

"..."

"You don't believe me."

"O-of course not." Lucina's face flushed a furious red. "Using Robin as a mouthpiece to utter false affections… How depraved! I should end you here!"

She raised her hands, and Falchion flashed.

"That sword," Robin said, "really hurts, and I don't like it. Don't swing it at me. Don't."

"I see now," Lucina said slowly, "you won't let me go free unless I force you."

"Or if you say yes—"

Falchion's tip whistled. The aftershock of the blow whipped Robin's hair against his cheeks. The hood of his robes lifted, and the wide hems fluttered. Dust kicked around his boots.

The gleaming edge stopped just short of the skin between his eyes.

"Why do you not fight back?" Lucina demanded.

"I already showed you, I have nothing and I will do nothing."

She paused, looking him over again. Falchion seemed to lose some of its lustre as she lowered it. Robin breathed a sigh of relief. At least he hadn't guessed incorrectly: Lucina had a limit to how willing she was to attack someone unarmed, even someone like him.

"Now, do you believe me?"

Lucina raised her chin. She exhaled sharply through her nose.

"I don't," she said. "I don't understand this. You seek the world's destruction. You hate Ylisse and its people."

He shook his head.

Ylisseans… they were pawns of the Divine Dragon, no greater among them than the Exalted bloodline. The zealots, headed by Grand-daddy Exalt, had understood their role best. They followed Naga with a sickening fervour, all the while demonizing Grima and the people of Plegia. But merely had they chosen one banner over another; in other regards, they weren't so different from the ones who called themselves Grimleal. And Robin didn't care much for the Grimleal.

Destruction? Robin barely needed to interfere, and the land unraveled itself just fine. He supposed blaming higher forces was easier. The world wished for a god of destruction, to worship or to vilify, and they would have their god—with or without him.

As for hate, there was only one being worthy of his hatred. The one who used this game of banners and dichotomies as a means to an end: Naga. Even thinking her name made him sick with loathing. By comparison, everyone else was a wasted effort.

"I have plenty of reasons to dislike this world," Robin said. "But the closer truth is that I don't really care. I would give it up—and the war, too, of course—if I could just have you instead."

She glanced around the chamber again, the corner of her mouth tightening with uncertainty. "You've already brought me here."

"With a teleportation rod." Robin shrugged. "It's not the same. Else I wouldn't have gone through all that trouble, getting my hand sliced open and everything."

He wagged the blistered and bloodied palm at her. The blood had congealed like tar; he could feel the sticky grit in the wrinkles of his skin.

Robin returned his hand back into its sleeve, but by then Lucina had paled. Well, if he needed remind her, she was going to stab his face. Things could have been a lot worse.

"... Then you swear, for all the good that would mean," Lucina said, "you will pull your men from the frontlines? Dismantle your military outposts and incursions? Put an end to the Grimleals' cruel practices?"

Finally, she was talking some reason. She might be leering at him, but she was talking reason nonetheless.

"You have my word. I will see an end to the war if you would join me. And I most certainly won't kill your friends, else I might've killed them all already."

She glowered. Robin smiled.

He held out his hand, the clean one. Robin felt that perhaps he had chosen wrongly, that Lucina could take another good look at the nasty wound she had inflicted. He did like irking her. It hadn't been so easy to get a rise out of her in the past.

"Be my consort."

Lucina looked between the outstretched hand and his face, and back again.

"Your _word_ ," she said.

"My word, as the wings of despair and the breath of ruin." Oh, she did _not_ like that. "Fine. As Robin. Or as Grima, whichever you want. As the Grandmaster tactician and crown prince of Plegia. As the Fell Dragon and all that is unholy? I'm not sure what you're looking for here."

"Make no mistake," she said, "I don't accept your proposition with trust or confidence. It remains to be seen if your words are any more than empty air, and of that I have little hope."

"O-okay…?"

Lucina met his gaze with a steely keen. "But if it is for the sake of this world, and for Ylisse, and my friends…"

Falchion flicked up. For a moment, he thought Lucina meant to strike him again. But with a flex of her wrist, the blade slid into its sheath at her side.

"I accept nonetheless," she said. "Let it be done."

Slender fingers slipped around his hand, grasping firmly.

Her expression softened for the first time he had seen in months. For a moment, he could almost imagine that Lucina was looking at him—not as Grima, but as Robin.


	2. Such Exhilarating News

The cloudless sky bled orange by the time Robin and Lucina reached the castle outskirt. They wove around the jagged outcrops that barricaded Plegia's heartland, dust wafting by in bursts. Robin whistled the sweeping, adventurous melody of an Ylissean ballad, 'The Trickster and the Sailor', as he twisted his veil of shadow against a sandy breeze. The sand broke before him in dashes of beige and smoke.

Looming ahead was the colossal dragon's skull. It grinned in death; long, curving teeth jutted from its maw, a forest of spines. Three eye-sockets opened monstrous caverns above a rock-shelf cheekbone. Around the base of the jaw ran the courtyard ramparts, a pitiful attempt to fence in the skull, their parapets barely reaching the bottom teeth.

The skull had been in sight since crossing the ruins threshold into Plegia's merciless sun. Lucina, ever suspicious of the next course, had paused on the sandstone dais to survey the foreign land. From their vantage, the wastes had stretched into the horizon, before disappearing behind shimmering waves of heat.

" _See that?" Robin indicated with his chin to a dome-shape nestled in the far sands. Sun-bleached white against an ocean of beige, the skull was hard to miss. Lucina traced his gesture, and her eyes flickered with recognition._

" _That's Plegia Castle," he said, "about half a day off. Since your friends are probably in hysterics as I speak, let's head back home first, then we can figure out how to proceed from there."_

"' _Home'," she repeated, looking at him unblinking. "What manner of bare-faced trap is this?"_

" _You know, you could give Frederick the Wary a run for his title. Considering we've made an agreement and all, you do realize that's_ your _castle now, it being a den of evil conspirators notwithstanding. Oh, and not to forget_ ― _I hope you like sand, because this region is full of it. All yours."_

 _He extended a hand to the wastes. Warm, dry air blew into his sleeve._

" _Welcome to Plegia, Princess."_

The dead dragon's craggy neck sloped into gargantuan dunes of sand and shale. Years of sandstorms had buried the carcass beneath an earthen crust; and years of labour from Plegian settlers had carved roads through the rock and raised flat-roofed buildings over the carcass's hide. Rising at the crest of the dragon's nape was the capitol itself, a spiny-spired crown to cap the city.

"That corpse," Lucina's voice said, a rare sound since leaving the ruins. He turned and found her slowing to a halt, staring at the half-buried dragon, hands curled at her sides. The furrow in her brow told him she had been gnawing on the thought for a time.

"Is it... you?" she asked, finally breaking her gaze.

Robin spread his arms and glanced down the front of his robes. "The last time I checked, I was perfectly alive."

"You know what I meant," she said in an annoyed tone.

He turned ahead and kept walking.

"It's not me."

A score of attendants hailed Robin's return to Plegia Castle. Dressed in coarse homespun browns, they gathered by the sandstone walls, bowing low and fawning. When they raised their heads to catch sight of Lucina, they smiled with all the joy of receiving the prince's guest.

Their enthusiasm belied the subtle glances they shared. Lucina, in her thick mantle, navy cloak with the crimson underside, and lapeled boots, cut a distinctly Ylissean figure in a land where most denizens wore loose-fitting robes, drab smocks, or almost nothing. If her presence weren't conspicuous enough, Robin had also arrived without any entourage to speak of.

The last he had returned alone was to claim the title of crown prince. Then, the people had whispered of how he'd been found in a field by none other than the Shepherds. Some had suspected Robin's dubious allegiance to his home country, while others thought he'd been kidnapped by the Ylisseans and brainwashed. There were even tales of how the prince had braved years-long imprisonment beneath the watch of Ylisstol's elite guards, where he had bided his time, plotting out the patrols and the passages of the fortress, until his meticulous plans had at last culminated in a heartracing, narrow escape. Depending on the story, his pursuers ranged from the wicked Shepherds, their captain Prince Chrom, to Exalt Emmeryn herself.

Robin had done nothing to stem the rumours, allowing them to grow as wild and inaccurate as gossipers could imagine. There had been no need for intervention. Plegia's recent victories in the war, under his lead, had pushed out any grumbling about an absentee prince's undeserved claim to power.

With how very popular a subject Ylisseans were in Plegia, and the late exalt visiting, speculation was bound to start anew. Robin could feel the rumours coiled in the air, ready to let fly the moment his back was turned. But just as he couldn't be bothered back then, he couldn't be bothered now.

Presently, a pair of blonde attendants stepped forward, offering ceramic cups of water. If Lucina was sweltering under that outfit of hers, she had given no indication, but Robin was parched. The desert air had been stifling, even with his improvised parasol and a stop by an oasis. The chilled water felt good going down his throat.

Lucina waited three of his gulps, before accepting the other drink with a soft "Thank you" and the barest hint of a smile. She lifted the cup in both hands, about to take a sip when she caught his look.

"What?" Lucina said.

Robin glanced aside and drained his cup without responding.

They stepped under the fang-like portcullis, and soon the dusk light melted away. Smells of spices and burning wood wafted from the castle interior. Raising his eyes to the torchlit hall ahead, Robin saw that the twin rows of bodies had grown again since his last departure. The bodies laid face-down and side by side, each as still as a sack. Then one of them shifted with a nervous titter.

He sighed inwardly. If the attendants had been deferential, the Grimleal were grovellers. Every rank from initiate to high priest pressed themselves flat on the tiles along Robin's path. When he passed, they came alive with a desperate chorus. The gaunt torchlight and the Grimleal's dark clothes made for a sinister passage, as seemingly disembodied hands snagged at Robin like brambles. The Grimleal reached out to his boots and the hems of his robes, snatching the fabric, offering prayers and begging for Robin's favour, hailing Grima and praising his guardianship over the vessel, all in one long stream of breaths.

Over the next fourteen steps, Lucina affixed Robin's heels with a rapt stare. At least the robed rabble paid no attention to the exalt, so focused they were on their fated lord, or whatever title they had latched onto next. She met his eye, and he offered her a shrug.

Still, Robin thought he could understand the Grimleal's revived motivation. With Mad King Gangrel dead, his apostates scattered, and the war swinging in Plegia's favour, the faith swelled with recruits eager to join the winning side.

He received their worship well enough, as this time, he didn't step on any fingers. Not that he supposed the Grimleal would complain if he did. No, they would consider their trodden hands a stroke of Fate. They would count their injured knuckles and find in them some rapturous meaning. To them, nothing was an accident beneath the guidance of Grima's plan, especially not the vessel himself, fellblood, boots, and all.

For that matter, Robin could say almost anything, and the Grimleal would swoon over his words. He had once uttered to them a few random phrases: 'clouds, pegasi, watermelons', 'moons and chimney'. The Grimleal had taken his words for symbolism and squabbled over who could best decipher the meaning behind his wisdom. Later, Robin had heard of a victor, but he never cared to see who.

Toward the end of the line, a few apprentices scampered closer for one last grab at his robes. Robin shifted his gait so their hands swiped air. In the corner of his eye, he saw Lucina tilt her head as if pretending not to notice.

Dear Father waited at the end of the vestibule, beneath the gullet-shaped archway carved with six leering eyes. His lanky frame hung like a spectre against the soft light emitting from the inner chamber. He wore his open-chested black vestment with the gilded hems that flowed down to his bare ankles. Around his unreasonably long neck was a chain, heavy gold and dangling with spade-ended tassets. A black goatee, streaked by a shock of white, honed his already-sharp chin to a point.

The king's sunken gaze fell upon Robin, wrinkling in joy. That joy became a touch strained when the man looked to the exalt, as if an odour had passed beneath his beak-like nose.

"Welcome home, my son and prince," King Validar said with purple lips.

Robin recalled sneaking a look at his father's napkin, to see if any powder had rubbed off after the man dabbed his mouth. He had been impressed to find Validar's complexion intact. Validar had ashen skin, eyes that somehow sucked out the light around them, and of course, the purple lips. Robin could barely imagine he was related to the man. But while the legitimacy of their relation might have been questionable, its usefulness was not, and that was the only reason he let things be.

Lucina glanced between them, no doubt puzzling over the question he'd had many times.

"I'm glad to be back, Father," Robin said, nodding.

"I must say, it pleases me to find the nature of your arrival as my messenger had spoken," Validar continued. "I had heard that you captured the exalt herself. Well done."

The messenger likely hadn't said any such thing, but Robin let him go on. The king clasped his spindly hands, clicking together long, raven-black nails. His eyes narrowed to crescents.

"At last, we have the beating heart of Ylisse in our clutches. Tell me, Son. How shall we prepare the execution? A hanging, or perhaps a beheading? … No, I expect you would find that too merciful yourself. Perhaps we should burn her at the pyre, as we do the heretics. Yes, yes, perfect! Let all be invited. The day shall go down in the books as one of the most glorious in all of Plegian history."

Robin glanced at Lucina and caught the twitch in her fingers. She was halfway to drawing Falchion.

"That won't be necessary," he said to Validar.

"Oh, is it that you want to deliver the final blow yourself?" His father laughed so lowly that it sounded like a rasp. "Brilliant. That must be why the exalt isn't bound in chains. You could end her at any moment if you so wished."

"Well," Robin waited for Validar's laughter to subside, "if you would allow me a moment to introduce you two. Lucina, this is my father, the venerable King Validar of Plegia. Father, this is my future consort, Exalt Lucina of the Halidom of Ylisse."

"A pleasure," Lucina said. She considered Validar with a measured, if cold, air.

The king's black eyebrows raised, wrinkling the skin of his forehead manifold.

"Oh, yes, of course. What a delightful development!" Validar said, not sounding at all delighted. "Time passes quickly. I had not realized you were getting to that age. Come along, then, for such an honoured guest ought to be shown her chambers. For one of the exalt's station, I believe we have a most suitable room underground."

"You needn't worry yourself, Father," Robin said pleasantly.

"But I insist." Validar leaned forward, the golden spades on his necklace clinking. "You both must be weary after a long journey. Allow this king, then, to aid his son… and, ah, future daughter."

His lips stretched ever upward, reminding Robin of a seedy innkeeper in a backwater hostel.

"Now, it wouldn't do for you to dote on me whenever I return from a trip, would it?" Robin returned a smile. The thin kind, for when his patience was wearing. "I assure you I can make these arrangements myself. Besides, it's only right and customary that I show my own guest around our home."

Validar's mouth twitched at the word ' _our'_.

"Very well, yes," he said at last, and gave a vaguely wistful sigh. "I do believe that one such as the exalt is best off in your care, after all."

"I'm glad we see eye to eye on the matter. Now, then." Robin glanced past the king and let his smile drop.

"But if you would allow me a few more words." Validar edged back into the focus of his vision. "Might I ask how long you shall be staying this time? We have had many new acolytes join in the past month, and it would bode well for them to acquaint with the hierophant. You'll join us for the morning sermon, won't you?"

Robin tried to school his dour tone. "I've noticed the recruits, and yes, of course I'll join you. But matters press us, and we'll have to depart again thereafter. Unfortunately." He felt Lucina give him a pointed look, not that he wanted to tarry, either.

"So soon?" Validar said with sweet regret. "It would please me if you could stay awhile and regale us of the recent times, as you had before. Surely, much has happened in a month. I recall, last you had brought such... exhilarating news of your campaign at Border Pass. Of the canyons washing red with the blood of heretics. Of our men forging into territory never before claimed by Plegia."

Validar laughed, openly now, his gaze sliding from Robin to Lucina. Black nails travelled to his goatee, stroking it like a treasured feline. "Oh, again and again, I wish I had been there to see the heretics' faces―or their backs, as our forces slaughtered them like the squealing pigs they were."

"There will be time in the future," Robin said. "For now, I will see you at dinner, Father. If it's news you want, you'll have it then."

This seemed to placate him. His shoulders relaxed, and his laughter lowered to a chuckle. "Yes, I see. I look forward to it, my son."

Validar shifted aside with wraith-like finesse and swept a claw hand toward the interior. Thin gold bracelets chimed.

Robin stepped past, Lucina following a few inches closer than usual. The low archway broke into a circular atrium. The spire ceiling rose high above, dying sunlight seeping through an array of panes. Across the faintly-lit floor, black and red tiles depicted a serpentine dragon spreading six feathery wings. Rising at its back was a halo-like ellipse, the dragon's wings and tail bursting past the golden rim.

Validar lingered behind long after they had passed. As Robin crossed the dragon's gaunt head, he could feel the man's stare bore into his back.

"Grima."

Robin released the door handle and looked to Lucina. She had halted outside the candidate chamber, resting a hand on the fluted ivory threshold. A reasonable interior had opened before them, offering a double bed of silken sheets and a gold-gilded mirror on an ashwood dresser, but Lucina had lowered her gaze to her shoe.

"Robin," he corrected.

"There was something I did not ask you," she said. "About Border Pass and the Galland Knights."

"Oh?"

Of course that would be fresh on her mind, as Validar had, with all the grace of a bludgeon, brought up one of Ylisse's worst military losses. For her general lack of restraint toward Robin, at least she had known better than to rise to Validar's bait.

"I had heard in the reports, but I did not believe them. I... had thought it preposterous, even for you." She peered up at him.

"Did you laugh?" Lucina asked.

Robin blinked. "What?"

"The reports said that you laughed when our men faced your forces. That you laughed so long and loud that it rang in the canyons."

She paused, lips parted as if to say more, but then she closed them.

"Oh," Robin said.

"What do you mean, 'Oh'? Did you, or not?"

Robin stepped past her into the hallway. He looked down the row of mounted torches to where they broke around a corner, the junction lying dark and still.

"Here."

He cupped his hands around his mouth and inhaled.

Low, guttural laughter trembled the air, multitudinous in pitch, and not at all human. The fires flagged and snapped, splashing erratic shadows on the bricks. The castle's ancient walls stirred. He felt reverberations in his soles, deep, rolling, as if the stones would liquefy and sink beneath him.

He thought back to Border Pass, to the line of soldiers, bearing blue-white tabards over polished steel. To the bristle of their claymores, lances, and halberds, that flashed against the afternoon sun.

" _There! The Plegian traitor!"_

" _His men have abandoned him. He's alone!"_

 _The knights of Galland poured forth, dozens of boots thundering down the valley. The road, mapped with lightning-fork cracks and trod with old maroon stains, rapidly diminished beneath their advance. They loosed a battlecry to wake the canyons._

" _For the exalt!"_

 _Robin raised a hand, palm up, and flexed his fingers._

 _With a crackle, the slim black tome he carried split open. A page sheared into the wind, then another and another. Torn sheafs of parchment joined a growing flurry that gusted, furled, undulated, and finally, burned, erupting in inky-violet gouts of flame._

 _The magic that lay inert around the valley's peripherals awoke._

 _Robin let the tome, now empty, slip from his fingers. Its metal-studded corner struck a rock. The earth resounded with a dark heartbeat. Soldiers staggered, weapon hafts banging against shoulderguards, couters against couters. They shouted in confusion. Several of the men cast looks at their feet, misdirected._

 _Amidst the distraction rose wet rasping sounds. Tendons creaked and popped like timber on fire. Hunched forms shifted in the corners of Robin's vision, emerged from the shadows of the narrow pass. They dragged behind them monstrous axeheads, metal keening against gravel._

 _There was a scream._

 _Then, screams._

" _Risen!" someone yelled. "Behind us!"_

" _In front too! A trap! Where did they_ ―" _The voice was lost among fresh cries of agony._

 _The Risen might not be quiet when animated, but when dormant they were as still as any corpse. There had been so many outcrops. So many crags to hide soldiers, or bodies, or both. But the Ylisseans had cast aside their caution in pursuit of the lone enemy tactician, and before they could react, a dozen men had crumpled beneath rust-eaten axes._

 _Soon, the Ylisseans began to mount a desperate retaliation, peals of metal against metal joining the din. Their formation fell into a loose convex, pushing tighter as the dead closed in like a fist._

" _Stand fast! Don't let them surround us!"_

 _Galloping hooves and the rhythmic clinking of armour joints. A knight barreled down the valley atop a spike-barded stallion. In his heavy gauntlet, he raised a broad-bladed partisan. He clove through the oncoming Risen, the spear scything through heads, limbs, and torsos, leaving behind a trail of smoking husks. Chestnut hair whipped against his hard face._

 _He had broken from the carnage. He was looking right at Robin, and he was coming closer._

 _A holler of defiance rose at the knight's back. The Ylisseans, spurred by his valour, redoubled their efforts. The Risen were still outnumbered, even one against a pair of footmen. They could be pushed back. The knight had slain five himself_ ― _Robin had felt their presence wink out, one after the other, with more to join. Each passing moment, the Ylisseans became more certain of what Robin already knew._

 _Watching impassively, Robin raised his hands around his mouth._

 _The canyon walls amplified his voice a hundredfold, echoing, echoing until the cliffs quaked. The sun dimmed as though its rays were collapsing from the valley. Shadows lengthened, distorted._

 _Men's mouths gaped beneath wide eyes and half-helms, forming soundless words:_ dragon, demon, monster _. The Ylissean ranks frayed and pushed together again, soldiers swaying like waves in a storm._

 _The stallion reared. It flailed its front hooves, head thrashing, tongue lolled out in an unheard whinny. Studded reins went taut as the rider yanked them back._

 _At the last moment, the knight threw himself from the saddle. He rolled against the ground, pauldrons ripping up dirt and shredded weeds. The stallion cut a hard turn and struck another soldier on the way out. The knight tumbled into a crouch, spear cradled in the nook of his shoulder, dust streaming from his heels. Flipping the spearpoint forward, he kicked into a charge. Heavy plate boots hammered the earth._

I swore in milord's name, _Frederick shouted, the tide of echoes drowning his voice,_ I would put an end to the betrayer who took his life. Today, I fulfill that promise!

 _Robin could see the whites in the man's eyes. Closing the last paces, Frederick threw the whole of his weight and rage into a single, terrible blow._

 _The spear slowed as though caught in mire. Black fumes bloomed around its point, like ink dispersing in water._

 _For a second, the blow came to a standstill._

 _The partisan shattered. Metal splinters rained the dirt, bouncing and skittering. The force drove Frederick backward, armour_ ka-chunk _ing as he staggered once, twice. He opened his fist and released a handful of shards where his spear had been. Then he collapsed on a knee._

 _A silver fragment hit the toe of Robin's shoe, which he kicked aside. His voice came out a hoarse growl. "Did she send you?"_

 _Frederick's mouth curled defiantly._

" _Tell me!"_

 _Sounds of screaming, fighting men dulled to a muffled throb, their frantic forms blurring into dark, faceted shapes. Robin was angry_ ― _albeit_ _not at Ylisse, not at the knights, not even at Frederick. A question seared his mind like a white-hot brand: did Lucina hate Robin so much that she would send her retainer, and her father's oldest friend, to die hunting him?_

" _No," Frederick said at last. "I set out myself, to right what was wrong."_

 _A derisive noise escaped Robin. If he were honest, he had thought that Frederick might still have upheld Emmeryn's ideals. But he also knew it had only been a matter of time before he met Frederick in battle, or, in this case, at the forefront of a crusade. Outliving three exalts had taken its toll on the Ylissean royal family's closest supporter._

" _You know what? I never considered you a blind man, Frederick. Zealous at times, yes, but not blind."_

 _He stared down at the knight._

" _So," Robin said, "why are you here, instead of with Cynthia and Lucina?"_

 _Something flickered across Frederick's expression, a chip in his stony demeanor. The man took a sharp breath. It came back out as fog._

" _You_ ―"

" _No, not me," Robin said. "_ You, _Frederick. They need_ you _by their side. They need_ you _too much for you to be playing the puppet to Ylisstol's court. If you're not blind, which you aren't, you know this._

" _Now, you can join your allies, who really want to get at the towns just past that ridge behind me, which they're not going to make it. Or, you can kindly remove yourself from my sight." He clapped his sleeved hands together. "I prefer the second option myself, but what say you?"_

Robin didn't hold the sound for long; his lips and throat were growing numb. He had lost his voice for days following that battle, and he wasn't keen on a repeat. Ending on an unceremonious cough, he watched the fires flutter back to an uneasy rest.

Sixfold echoes fled down the corridor. Somewhere amidst them, Robin heard muffled screaming and a distant flurry of retreating sandals. So much for eavesdroppers. Or maybe that was the help, and he had just scared them away.

"If that's what you mean, then I did," he said.

He turned to see Lucina's fingers tight around the threshold. Her face was stricken.

Her annoyance would have been fine. Anger, too, he could handle. But fear… Robin began reaching toward her, before he caught himself and pulled back his hand.

Lucina recovered with a scowl.

"I see," she said. "A lowly trick, then."

"It worked, didn't it?" he asked. "Did you think I was laughing at them because I―"

"―Liked watching them die?" The corner of her mouth creased. "Maybe you weren't. I'm not certain it's any better."

"Probably not," Robin said.

In the dining hall, long-tables seated on each side a dozen chattering Plegian nobles. Wide clay plates were heaped with hearty delicacies: pig's intestines stuffed with beans, peanuts, and rice; mackerels from the Sajerei River, scalped and seared; pickled pork snouts; flat rye-breads topped with dollops of sour-smelling cheese. For drink, red and date wines were served in ebony ceramic jugs.

A trio of female dancers, clad in flowing strips of green, pink and orange satin, took the stage. Braziers drew hard outlines against their bare shoulders and waists. They cartwheeled and spun from the points of their toes to the tips of their fingers, flinging sand in cascades. Below them sat the musicians, strumming lutes, banging on tambourines and twittering reed pipes to a lively fanfare.

Most attendee eyes, however, were not on the entertainment, but on Robin's table. Or rather, on Lucina, who sawed at a piece of yellow toast with a serrated knife. She had changed into a less-conspicuous sable dress for the evening― _just the evening_ ―but her uncommon hair colour and her seat beside Robin had attracted the hall's attention.

Robin was content to ignore the gossipers. He sampled as many dishes as he could reach: a hunk of spicy tendon, a bit of the intestines, a dipper-full of sandbear stew, some fish. Not because he liked all of it, but all of it was his to eat, and by the gods, he was hungry.

"Lucina, you should try this mackerel," he said. "It's quite acceptable."

Using a twin-pronged fork, he filleted half a fish. Robin held the flaky flesh over the edge of her saucer and raised his eyebrows.

"If you say," she said. He set the fish down, and she tried it.

"It's acceptable," Lucina agreed.

When she made no move to take any other food, Robin glanced over the spread of dishes, most of which were too spicy, too sour, or too scorched for an Ylissean palate. He settled on a pot of bubbling, thick brown contents. "You might enjoy the sandbear stew. Sandbears are kind of like bears, besides the snout and the extra paws. Didn't we see one along the way?"

He filled a half-bowl of stew and slid it over the table. Then he scooped another chunk of the salty, fatty meat for himself.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

"You can ignore them, you know." Robin cast around the hall. At that moment, many nobles became fixated with their plates, with each other, or on the feast. "They won't hurt you. Well, most of them won't."

Lucina took the bowl in both hands and gave the stew a sip.

"Interesting, isn't it?" he asked, taking a mouthful of his own. "Tastes like home, in a literal sense."

She finished the rest, although the set of her mouth told him it was more out of politeness than anything.

A passing attendant set down a wide-rimmed plate. Hunks of stringy red fruit, each speared with an ivory skewer, rested in a pool of crimson syrup.

"Bloodfruit, a Plegian delicacy," Robin explained to Lucina, who was eyeing the dish warily. He took a skewer and popped into his mouth a piece of the tangy and sour flesh.

"Also passable." He smacked his lips. "Strawberry syrup, by the way."

Robin offered her some of the fruit, which she refused along with the next six-odd dishes he introduced. With no more options in range, he began emptying the nearby plates to scraps, Lucina watching with a mild horror akin to seeing the Grimleal back in the entrance hall. It was unfortunate that she didn't share his enthusiasm. Robin could eat the world if he didn't have to give it to her.

He had scraped the last bit of sauce from the stew pot before deciding he'd had enough. With spirits high and festivities simmering down, Robin rapped his knuckles on the table.

The gesture spread through the banquet like a ripple. Voices hushed. The musicians slowed their tempo to a quiet, steady thrum. The dancers landed on their feet and curtsied to the audience as if their performance had ended just then. Table by table, the Grimleal, the court advisors, the nobles of influential houses, the nobles of not-so-influential houses, and the high-ranking castle guard, each turned to him.

A hundred pairs of eyes rested on Robin.

He stood and raised his chalice. A cherry bobbed in the wine.

"First of all, I offer my thanks to the staff for arranging this magnificent banquet on short notice. It gives me joy to return home to such welcome and jubilation."

He held the chalice to the attendants, who clasped their hands and bowed, followed by the dancers sketching a curtsy. The lute-players twanged just a bit louder, and tambourines jingled. He turned to the chefs by the kitchen counter. Their soot-tanned faces broke into smiles, and they waved. Robin thought they looked unfamiliar. Perhaps the king, with his finicky tastes, had tired of the old cooks, or there had been yet another poisoning attempt.

The king. Robin looked to the head of the table, at Validar. A heavy crown rested on the man's wispy black hair. Validar strummed his long fingers on a pearl-encrusted armrest. A frown perched on his lips.

"And thank you, Father, for your generosity and wisdom that guide Plegia to an ever better future. Long may you rule, and long may the country thrive."

Validar nodded. Robin cast his gaze outward, to the rows of men and women. They nodded along with the king, along to the empty words.

"Now," Robin said, raising his voice above the dull crackle of braziers, "those of you gathered here, young and old, commoner and noble. I expect you are all well aware of Plegia's war with Ylisse." Again, heads nodded. "Some of you may be wondering about my return, knowing that my role as Grandmaster requires constant vigil. Rest assured, Plegia's borders are safe, as is the Heartland.

"We have repelled every incursion against us. We have driven Ylissean forces from the borderlands, their garrisons from their forward advances. We have had them reeling since the battle at Border Pass. And now, pushed back into their own territory, all that Naga's zealots can do is lick their wounds as they await the inevitable. I say to you with confidence that the finale of the war is at hand, and there is only one outcome."

Cheers. Mugs banged against tabletops. The king broke into a wide, wicked grin, as did the Grimleal beside him.

"It is at this point, I have two important announcements to make." He paused, let his audience's faces grow expectant.

"The first is that I have chosen a bride."

Excitement swept the gathered Plegians anew. Some of the more drunk patrons, sensing the mood upswing, beamed at him.

"In fact, some of you may have noticed that she sits beside me even now."

Lucina had stopped cutting her toast into tiny squares. She sat back in her chair, eyes narrowed, mouth flat. Robin couldn't fully see the angle of Lucina's arms from where he stood, but he was fairly sure she had her hand on Falchion, ready to cleave the table apart and a hole through the nearest wall. He gave her a knowing smile.

"My betrothed is none other than Exalt Lucina of the Halidom of Ylisse."

A murmur spread through the audience, more than a few sounding confused. Robin heard some clapping, hesitant at first, soon bolstered by dozens of others to a polite patter. For several among the guard and the nobility, the motions seemed to come rote, as they clapped while regarding each other with suspicious scowls.

Raucous applause broke out at one of the centre tables. A nobleman, cherry-cheeked and drunk, howled approval and slapped his meaty hands together, a graceless spectacle to the scandal of everyone in his vicinity. This continued for several seconds, until a woman beside him jabbed an elbow into his ribs. The noble jolted. His face clouding, he peered around as if seeing the hall and its patrons for the first time. He slumped his shoulders, stilling his hands around a mug. Robin shot him a grin.

"With our union, the long-standing divide between our nations shall be abolished. I henceforth make my second announcement: the war between Plegia and Ylisse is at its end.

"As the month closes, I expect to be issuing orders of recall for our soldiers, and closures of our garrisons. There will also be the matter of deciding what becomes of the newly-freed military funds. Without delving into details so early, the prospect is that efforts will be made toward reparations and amendments."

A surge of voices. Heads swiveled as the Plegians spoke openly with their neighbours. General Campari's face was thunder, as did the other captains and war advisors look shocked. The advisors turned to one another, flapping their mouths. At the end of the table, commissioner-of-arms Jamil steepled his fingers together, staring off in hard contemplation. If Lucina's hand hadn't been on Falchion before, it certainly was now, only her attention was no longer directed at Robin but at some very upset captains and noblemen.

Meanwhile, several lesser nobles, chefs, and attendants lowered their heads, expressions softening with a guilty relief. A few glanced around furtively, in case they had drawn the ire of angrier patrons.

Validar slammed his palms onto the table. So forcefully did he rise that his heavy throne scraped against the tiles. The sounds were swallowed by the din, however, and scarcely any attendees took notice.

Robin raised his voice, though few people listened anymore. "To the prosperity of Plegia. May Lord Grima spare us all."

He drained his chalice in a long gulp, smiling at the irony of his words.


	3. How Dare You

"How… how dare you?" Validar's bloodshot eyes bulged, his pupils pinpoints of rage. The king's grey skin had paled—even his purple lips looked a shade lighter.

On the throne platform, the royal council had assembled. They stood alongside the king and glowered at Robin, braziers casting baleful shadows across their faces.

General Campari, the ever-diligent bodyguard, made a prominent figure in his unscuffed, gleaming shoulderguards. He wore a leather cuirass wrapped over his sizable paunch, the belt buckled several notches too tight. His lips were peeled back in a snarl. It might have looked intimidating did he not have the floppy jowls of a Valmese mastiff.

Beside him, Commissioner-of-Arms Jamil had adopted a hunch, arms and legs bent oddly as if he wasn't sure what to do with them. The fire reflected white spots in his frantic eyes. Jamil's gaze lacked the same intensity as his peers, and Robin could guess why: though the man's station dictated that he join this conference, his mind was likely roaming over all the places he kept his assets. Jamil had to find a way to save his finances from the fallout of Robin's speech, and standing here wasn't going to help.

On the king's right stood a brick-wall of a man who sported a glistening scar across the bridge of his nose. Algol. His black archpriest's robes did little to conceal coiled muscles better suited for brawling than scribing. He held his arms folded, plated boots planted apart. A scowl creased his face. Yes, Algol was angry, but Algol was always angry. The Grimleal seemed to focus on Robin only because his vantage offered nothing else to glare at.

Last in the row was a much slighter advisor who wore gold silks patterned with Chon'sinese-style clouds. He was preening a toothpick-sharp moustache. Robin had forgotten his name.

For all the pomp of their titles, most of the men here were barely worth mentioning.

"I don't know what you mean by that, Father. There's not much to dare," Robin said.

"How can you make such a brazen announcement before the people of the castle, before your king? Even if you are the prince and the fated vessel… You wish to hand over this war to our ancient enemy. I say never! Never should any Plegian king, current or future, throw away the torch borne by our predecessors for millennia. It is sacrilege. It is ripping out the very heart of the land and casting it away."

Campari clapped his pudgy gloved hands, mouth twisting halfway to a smile. "Well said, my king. This goes against everything Plegia stands for. A spit in the face of all the brave soldiers who fought and died for this land."

Robin idly met Campari's moist eyes. _You vyed to defend the castle, citing loyalty and service to the throne, all so you could avoid the frontlines and gorge yourself on a lifetime of banquets. Who is a spit in the face?_

He let the seconds pass, staring at the man, chin tilted slightly upward. No words.

The clapping slowed, then stopped.

If Robin had been a pettier tactician, he might have yanked Campari from his decadent post. Consigned him to a tent in the northern wastes, or sent him to patrol the Border Sands for wayward ships landing upon its shores. Instead, Robin had left the man to his impotent devices. Let him be convinced that his oaths had won him his title. A general so concerned with his own prestige and safety would have been a liability, and Robin had no need for more of those.

Campari blinked, eyebrows knitting in disconcert. He glanced from side to side at the others. Validar continued staring on, as if unaware that the general had even spoken. Campari's mouth parted slightly, before closing again.

Robin supposed owning a pair of red eyes came with _some_ benefits, like the ability to unnerve political nuisances through no real effort on his part. Helpfully, the council had even kindled the platform braziers. The flames were meant to cast the council in a dramatic and menacing light—Robin had been on the other side numerous times and could attest to the effectiveness of the trick—but here, several men struggled to stare down what looked like a pair of pupils reflecting crimson from the shadowed base of the steps.

"Ahem," said the short advisor, the one whose name escaped Robin. The man still had his moustache pinched between his thumb and ring finger, and was smoothing it at approximately one millimetre per second. Seeing a whisker that fine and sharp made Robin's face itch.

"Yes, I ah, I concur wholeheartedly, Your Highness. The idea that our generations-long war should end in… in..." with his free hand he grasped at nothing in particular, as if the gesture would somehow reel in the words, "some pitiful... _kowtowing,_ baffles me with its disingenuity. I suspect that our dinner guests have similar sentiments, especially when you consider that Ylisse wouldn't have showed us the same mercy. No, no. No matter the lies of one exalt, they were ready to scour Plegia from the maps. Those of us who have lived for long enough understand this. Amnesty only gives them the chance to try again."

 _Yes, and assassinating Emmeryn wasn't provoking Ylisse to 'try again'._

What mattered here, really? Defending the homeland, or the chance to cast stones at their enemies? Between the two, the council would pick the latter ten times out of ten, though they would never openly admit to such a petty, graceless thing.

The truth was that the ruling class wanted to keep antagonizing their easterly neighbours. With every retaliation, they could point to Ylisse's barbarism and tell recruits: _See,_ _this is what we're fighting_. Lost on them was the irony that Ylissean zealots employed the same tactics.

Unfortunately, the advisor kept talking. Robin had been ready to ignore him.

"Not only that, Prince," he said, "and I say this with ah, all due respect, but you overstep your role. If our king decrees that we wage war, your duty is not to question why or how long, but to conduct the armies against the enemy. Just as if our king demands the funds for upkeeping our stronghold in the Heartland, it is the duty of Commissioner Jamil and myself to serve that end. Pulling a… a... stunt like this, without rhyme, reason, or warning…" He drew a breath between his teeth and shook his head.

Jamil nodded. "Lordship, you have your job. We have ours. I hope you don't need a reminder on what they are, but for us, that's to decide on matters of finance, and that's our turf you decided to trample all over. You want to end the war overnight. Did you even think about what this is going to mean for our economy? The thousand livelihoods that'll be lost for the Plegians who left home for the Greystone quarries and the Midmire? What losing that gold and labour from our weaponsmithing and vulneraries will do to the Heartland?"

"Yes, yes, and also," Robin said, "yes." He didn't want to have this conversation right now.

"Yes, you say." The moustached advisor frowned. "You _can_ say so, of course. But if you well and truly thought on the matter, then, surely you would see the catastrophic effects this plan will have on the immediate term."

True, the transition wouldn't be easy for a nation that had known war for decades. Robin suspected that Plegia would hardly know what to do with itself in peacetime. War gave Plegia's scattered states a reason to unite, and more importantly, a justification to raid and plunder wholesale. After all, why did so many bandits hail from Plegian origins, rather than Ylissean or Feroxi? Naga's zealots would claim that Plegians had inherent criminal blood, a natural inclination to murder and steal. But the more practical explanation was that denizens from an infertile land, seeing little way to create their own wealth, more likely turned to raiding as the answer.

"So?" the advisor said.

"'Immediate term' being the key words," Robin said. "You _are_ comparing this to the exorbitant amount of gold we've spent on army wages and running supply lines over the decades, yes?"

"Well, my lord, you said it yourself. That after entering Ylisse, the cost of running supply lines would decrease by an order of magnitude." The advisor squinted. "Were you not as successful in your ventures as you expected?"

Robin smiled at the jibe. "I've found a way to cut that cost entirely, see."

"Ah, again. If you must insist on playing the economist, I suppose that is very well. But even if we were to entertain the notion of withdrawing from the battlefield, it could take months, if not years. The cost would be tremendous. And, you even spoke of this thing called 'reparations'?"

Several councilmen grimaced at that word. Let alone end the war, but extend a hand to the enemy, too? Repulsive. Appalling. It might as well be suggesting that they extend their hand to wyvern dung.

Emboldened by the rapport of his peers, the advisor continued, "With what, gold and supplies we can scarcely afford to give away, when we should be investing in our own country? And if we dare show weakness on this front, Ylisse will press to drain us dry." He peeled his fingers from the whisker, and it sprang against his cheek. "Go on and tell us, then, Grandmaster of _Finance,_ what did you account for that?"

"School your words," Validar said. "I will not have you heckling my son like a stage fool."

The advisor shrank, though injustice was plain in his expression. Robin's multitude of titles, combined with his short tenure, had never sat well with some council members. "Ah. Yes. Of course," he said. "My apologies, King Validar... Prince Robin. I beg your pardon. I was concerned for the future of our country, which the economical consequences of this proposition will affect deeply."

Validar grunted, flicking his hand as if at an insect. Whatever the livelihood of peasants or the logistics in taxing the populace. The king would get his gold regardless.

With the advisor cowed, Validar's gaze slid back to Robin. "It was not long ago that you had returned with news of your crushing victory in Border Pass. Why this now?" His expression softened then, and he clutched at his open collar. "My son, have your headaches finally caught up with you?"

How gracious of Validar to offer an out. Robin didn't take it.

"On the contrary, my mind has been clearer than ever in the past month. And, contrary to arguments made so far, I believe I am in my full right to issue this decree, ever since you appointed me as Grandmaster and final arbiter of all military decisions."

Not _some_ military decisions. Not 'conditions apply'. All. As excessive as it must have seemed to the council, what had taken Robin to this point was a far greater price to pay. No title, no amount of power they gave him could ever surmount that debt.

If he could turn back time, for that matter...

Validar breathed in again, long and deep. He scraped a long thumbnail against his goatee, looking troubled. Likely, he was reflecting over the long list of victories Robin had accumulated in the past year, and wondered how it had all come to this point. How they could win the upper hand, press their generations-old enemy into a corner, poise to strike the felling blow, only to throw it all away.

"Indeed, I did," Validar said. "I had believed it was the best course for Plegia. Still now, I believe I shall stand by that decision. But you never sought my counsel, else I would've smitten this ill-conceived plot the moment I had heard of it. For that is exactly what this is: an ill-conceived plot. A grave mistake. Recant your words, my prince, and we may still amend the damage yet."

There was no such thing Robin would call _damage,_ and there was no amending his words even if he wanted, which he didn't. But while he was here, he might as well pretend to consider Validar's terms.

Robin looked to Campari, who was bloated and purple with anger. Despite the general's decorated status as the king's guard, the man had no sway over the grandmaster, and he knew it. Robin could see how badly Campari wanted to speak out, all those words trapped in the veins bulging on his neck.

Algol pushed out his bottom lip but said nothing. He was a Grimleal present in the capital only by circumstance, and present in this room only by outranking the others. Months ago, Robin had invited the archpriest to join the armies, an offer that Algol immediately accepted. The warmongering Grimleal that he was, Algol had been elated by the opportunity to kill Ylisseans. Only there was one issue: the king, wanting to maintain some semblance of a cohort, had demanded at least one _proper_ Grimleal stay by his side. There was Chalard, but Chalard was a coward, and there was Ardri, who was too lazy.

So, Algol had been chosen to stay home. From the look on the archpriest's face, he loathed his situation.

He had no idea how fortunate he was.

The other two men watched Robin with a mix of chagrin and desperation. Jamil, royal commissioner and arms trader; the other, whose name Robin still couldn't quite place, oversaw the distribution of vulneraries. Both stood to profit from a prolonged war. Undoubtedly Validar had already heard all the ways Robin's proposition would upset the flow of coin to the castle coffers, though they surely were more concerned about their own pockets.

Not that he had anything personal against Algol or even Jamil, but if the ceiling collapsed upon the lot of them, Plegia wouldn't fare much worse.

Robin tilted his head. "My wedding is in a month," he said. "I hope to see you all then."

* * *

Come morning, Robin pulled his chamber door open, face scrunched in a yawn. He took another step and nearly walked into someone.

Standing just past the threshold was Lucina. From a gist of her silhouette, she was already dressed in full Ylissean garb. He could feel her appraising stare, even if he couldn't quite meet it for all the bleariness clouding his sight. He guessed she had meant to knock.

Robin blinked a few times. "Um."

"Well?" she said.

"Lucina, it's five in the morning. And you're standing at my door." He paused, feeling the delayed weight of his own words. "Did you get any slee—"

"It's sunrise." She inclined her head toward a window in the hallway. Robin squinted. Cresting the craggy horizon was a faint light, just barely visible amidst the pitch-black of its surroundings. "To get the most mileage out of our day, we should depart now."

He ran a hand through his bedraggled hair. "Fair enough. Unfortunately, I didn't drink enough to forget my promise to Validar about the sermon. Else, you would've had to wake me up again." Another yawn bubbled up his throat, and he failed to suppress it.

Robin remembered all the times he had dragged himself from his tent at the crack of dawn, the long days of marching. The Shepherds had always been better than him at both. While he didn't miss those aspects about gallivanting around the halidom, the past year hadn't seen him getting much more sleep, either.

"Right. Your sermon," Lucina said. A pause, and Robin imagined her expression pinching in distaste. "I needn't remind you that every minute we spend here is another that could have brought us closer to Ylisse. And I should make my return soon, or otherwise..."

Her words drifted off. He supposed standing in Plegia Castle didn't encourage her to be open about delicate subjects like _the halidom's spiral into chaos._

"Nobody is listening," Robin offered. It was true. Ever since he'd scared away the individuals following them last evening, no other attendants had come forward, not even someone posing as an attendant. Likely, Validar or the council knew he would find out. Or perhaps it had slipped them in the post-banquet chaos.

Quieter, she said, "As things stand, I'm not convinced that this is more important than my country."

"I don't think it is, either. Honestly, I hardly care for the sermon at all."

"Are you just saying that? You are the hierophant, are you not?" Lucina sounded almost as though she were scandalized on the Grimleal's behalf. "Or, don't tell me this is one of your misbegotten jokes."

"Yes, I'm the hierophant—easiest title I've ever earned. And no, I was perfectly serious. It's not about the sermon itself. Not any more than if you were to hold court on Duke Farlane's tariff proposals for any reason besides letting him feel like he has a voice. But you do it anyway."

Lucina didn't rise to his bait, which he supposed was to her credit. In the past, the princess most certainly would have demanded he reschedule; an exalt, on the other hand,could understand the need for games, especially with an audience as volatile as the Grimleal. Especially with the current Plegian king at their helm.

Even for his disdain of the Grimleal, there still was a reason why Robin had left the capital for last.

"You have a lot to explain," Lucina said, shifting onto a foot. " _After_ we leave this place."

"Certainly." Robin gave her a nod. "Mind, though, it's not like we can head straight into the desert with just the clothes we're wearing." He considered the voluminous cloak on Lucina's back, then recalled the brisk and unerring pace she had taken across yesterday's trek. "Well, maybe you can, but not me."

She sighed. "I don't suppose it's unreasonable to expect you have taken some measure of planning before embarking on this misadventure of yours."

"Not unreasonable at all. If it helps, I did prepare a way out of here. It's not as expedient as a teleportation rod, but it's a passable second."

"Yes? Which is?"

"A friend of mine," Robin said. "I'll introduce you soon. I should warn you, however, she's got a bad temper."

"This friend of yours…" She hesitated. "A Grimleal, then?"

"Thankfully, no." Though if he were to be honest, not all Grimleal were so insufferable. Some of them knew how to stop talking. "Right now, I need to splash some water on my face, or I'm going to fall asleep standing up." He waved toward the hall. "Do you mind?"

Lucina let him by, before matching his pace down the gloomy corridor. The wall-mounted torches had faded to scant embers overnight, just enough to mark the way. It would be some time before the servants came around with their buckets of tallow and refueled the sconces. Robin found this an indication that sermons were way too early, though the Grimleal believed otherwise.

From Lucina's clipped gait, he could tell she wanted to walk faster, but Robin was content with an idle pace. A sermon was one of the last things he felt like anyone should rush to, especially during the dead hours of the morning. He could feel his eyeballs still burning with fatigue.

 _Just like proper mortal eyes._ Unfortunately, no amount of eerie crimson glow had changed that.

The hallway windows let in a pleasant morning chill. He savoured it, stretching some of the stiffness from his shoulders. If every day in Plegia could be as cold as its nights, then the region might be marginally more tolerable. In the past, Robin had considered moving to northern Ylisse or even Regna Ferox for the climate alone, and each day spent in this gods-forsaken desert had only compounded the sentiment.

Drawn by a faint breeze, Robin's steps drifted toward the next window. The simple rectangular opening was wide enough for a motivated assassin or spy to climb through, and had a crossbar to prevent exactly that. Beyond was a barely lit sky above a dark landscape. If the sun were up, he would have a vantage of the whole eastern Heartland: swaths of beige stretching for leagues, broken up by scrub brush, some rocks, and the occasional ruins that were practically indistinguishable from rocks. Very exciting. He couldn't wait to leave.

Robin put his hands on the cold stone sill. He took a breath, which was blessedly cool and not full of sand, and imagined soaring. Over the shadowed dunes, toward the mountains, away from the sermon. With Lucina, of course.

"I thought you wanted to wash your face," Lucina said.

"The air feels nice."

She had no response, though she was surely staring at him flatly. He let himself smile at the horizon. Being in Plegia Castle was much more pleasant with Lucina around—he could almost tolerate the place.

"You know," Robin said, "Validar didn't appreciate the last time I took a nap at service. And I might have aggravated him enough for now. Maybe." A thought came to him. "Say, Lucina, would you care to attend today's sermon?"

"Excuse me?" Her voice lowered. "Listen here. I am _not_ joining your—... religion."

"Nobody said you had to join." Of course, one didn't invite the exalt, antithesis to the faith just shy of the Divine Dragon herself, to a Grimleal sermon. Even though he just did.

"Could I not wait outside, somewhere?" she asked.

"You could. I just thought that, if you're going to have this world, you might as well see what you're getting. And the last I was aware, the Grimleal are still part of the world."

"I've faced the Grimleal before," Lucina said softly. "Even if there is any more to them than what I have seen—what _we_ have seen—that doesn't excuse their actions."

He turned to her. "You're right, it doesn't." She seemed surprised by his concession. Odd, as he didn't recall giving any indication that he _liked_ the Grimleal. "But if I can give my honest review, some of them are perfectly boring. Most don't even have a single sacrifice to their name."

If Lucina went by Ylissean propaganda, then she might think the sermons were bloody, traumatic affairs. To be fair, Robin had assumed they were bloody, traumatic affairs, complete with wearing viscera like a garland and chanting in tongues, until he attended one and realized how mind-bendingly dull it was.

Since Validar wanted to restore Fell worship as the state religion, the king had to be sensitive to why it had fallen out of favour at numerous points in Plegia's history. Blood sacrifices were not, in fact, popular among the common Plegians, and the faith was not going to win followers by acting insane. That didn't mean the faith _wasn't_ insane, but it did mean the sermons were mostly normal. For now.

"And yet," Lucina said, "one does not simply join the Grimleal without a certain intent."

"I guess." He shrugged.

"Indeed, Fell Dragon? For all your nonchalant attitude, I haven't forgotten that you constitute part of the Grimleal as well."

"You see, I like to consider myself more of an honorary member. What else were they going to do, ban me?"

"At the least, you are an accomplice. The reports—" she caught herself, though he already had a decent idea what 'the reports' entailed. "... You're not so much a mere member as you are one of their leaders, if not their very professed god. Speaking of which, this is some conceit you have, inviting me to a sermon about worshipping yourself."

"Very technically, it's not about me," he said. "The thing is that nobody in this castle thinks I'm Grima... Well, besides you. If I can't convince you otherwise, then at least I'd like to keep things this way for a while longer."

She scrutinized him. He found it unfair that she had an easier time reading his glowing eyes than he did her silhouette.

After a moment, Lucina said, "What is your motive here?"

"Nothing more than I've said so far." He knew she wasn't convinced. "Really. Here's my hunch: I don't think you can be satisfied with only knowing the Grimleal by the actions of its worst members, and stories about the rest."

That was, stories including her auntie Nowi nearly getting sacrificed by one Elder Priest Chalard. Robin remembered how old Gregor would recount the incident with a dish-rattling thump of the dinner table and a hearty laugh.

As the tale went, the mercenary had been tracking a caged transport across the dunes of remote Plegia. Moving with the wind so as not to betray his presence to the armed guards surrounding his target, he had ducked around boulders, laid behind low ridges, and crawled through itchy scrub for days. Originally, he had been employed by the very people he was following, but abandoned the job when he discovered that they meant to abduct and murder a child.

Or at least, somebody who looked like a child. That discovery was another story.

" _Gregor is mercenary, not criminal!"_ Gregor would say. He was very passionate about that point, knowing how the general populace tended to view sellswords. _"Mercenary is not criminal. Is hard work, honest work!"_

True to his principles, he had been spying for an opportunity to free the captive, Nowi. But the transport guards, consisting of his former peers and several hooded Grimleal, had remained vigilant at every moment, switching shifts with discipline. The days passed, until Gregor began to run low on water and feared he would be forced to retreat.

" _Was no good," the mercenary said. "Supplies low. Waterskin very low. Sun was very hot, much hotter than here in Ylisse. This was dangerous job, even for Gregor. But then. But then..."_

But then came one sweltering noon. One moment, he had been wiping sweat from his face; in the next, a half-score of armed men and women were storming over the sands toward the transport. They were not bandits: there were no threats, no demands for money and goods. Scarcely a word was spoken before the Grimleal and the guards were overwhelmed by a force Gregor later learned were the Shepherds.

Seeing his chance, Gregor confronted the ringleader. With a brandish of his broadsword and a full-lunged holler, he sent Chalard fleeing into the wastes. So frantically did Chalard scramble to escape, he shucked off a shoe and dropped his copy of _Grima's Word_. The latter was collected by Gregor as a fond keepsake of the incident.

" _Should see his face when he saw Gregor," the mercenary said. "Was looking like this!" Then he would pull at his eyelids to make them wide and wrinkly._

Having seen the infamous Chalard himself, Robin thought that the priest always looked perplexed. Not that he would break Gregor's heart with this little detail, as the old mercenary had loved telling the story to the Shepherds' children.

Now, Robin didn't doubt that there really was going to be a sacrifice, and that there really were some irredeemable buffoons among the Grimleal. But Lucina's father had known firsthand the folly of judging a population by the actions of a few, and was sure to instill that lesson in his daughter. Ylisse had faced similar vitriol in the aftermath of a certain exalt's rule, after all.

"Am I wrong?" he asked.

She exhaled. "I feel disinclined, to say the least." This line of reasoning he understood, having a long list of disinclinations himself. "And I'm still not convinced this is not some absurd attempt at recruitment."

 _Or a trap_ , went the unspoken words.

"Well, you know, suppose you did want to join— _suppose_ , alright—Grima's wings are open to everyone, especially converts. Third sacred decree. Just saying."

An Ylissean like herself might be surprised how inclusive the faith was. Then again, an Ylissean like herself also might be considerably less impressed about the source of that inclusiveness: nothing brought together fanatics across the world quite like the End Times. Robin didn't share a fraction of their excitement, and _he_ was supposed to be the one to bring the end.

"Very compelling. I'm impressed you have any decrees that don't involve destruction of a kind or another."

"Oh, well, there's plenty of that, too, if you want to hear about it. The Reckoning, the Apocalypse, the Pestilence…"

"No, thank you." Lucina gave a brief wave. Her hand stopped mid-air. She sighed. "Then again, I suppose we must be delayed either way."

Robin knew that was as close to an agreement as he was going to get. After all, she couldn't be sure that he wasn't still in league with Validar. For all his show at the banquet, Lucina may have reasoned with herself that Robin was the only feasible way out of Plegia, and that was solely why she agreed to cooperate. If she ever felt that her situation was inescapable, she might very well accept fate—which meant bringing Robin down with her.

Fine by him. Not as if anything was going to happen.

* * *

 _A/N: I'm very sorry about the long delay. The next few chapters should come a bit more regularly._


	4. The Exalt Can't Be a Grimleal

Validar was expressionless besides the twitching at the corner of his lip. His gaze swept over the whispering, wide-eyed Grimleal on the altar dais. Nobody returned the attention, not when they had the exalt to gape at.

In one of the front pews, Lucina sat with one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in her lap. She gave off an impression of frigid calm, and the twilight-blue hue filtering through the cathedral mosaics lent her an even colder countenance. If she regretted this delightfully bad idea, she didn't show it.

As much as Robin would have liked to join her, he had to stand with his cultist fellows. Too bad. Lucina had glanced over the Grimleal, her expression betraying nothing, but Robin could tell what she thought. He was sure he looked like a stereotypical cultist, wearing his black robes with the hood drawn ominously over his eyes.

It wasn't that he wanted to look ominous. Some convoluted tradition dictated that the clergy hold an endless wake for their fallen god, and some other convoluted tradition dictated that they dress to the task. The latter meant robes: usually long-sleeved, sometimes adorned with the Eyes of Grima, always coal-black. From the audience's view, the figures on the dimly-lit platform were little more than silhouettes. In front were six acolytes who held the six sacred candles, while the other Grimleal had arranged themselves into some sort of oblong formation. Supposedly, the formation was in the shape of an eye. An eye. Whatever standing around in the shape of an eye was meant to do. But stand there they did, waiting for an arbitrary seven minutes and six seconds to pass. Robin tried not to fall asleep.

What god would bother coming up with these pointlessly specific rules? The clergy's manner of dress, the rituals, the idea of a Truthspeaker, the recital of verses, the apparent symbolism of it all: they were human inventions to the last. Even that business of lying flat and flailing at the hems of Robin's robes—which he'd had to suffer again that morning—wasn't it to satisfy the Grimleal's ego? Those present could feel like they had taken part in something holy, gotten a piece of the god-apparent for themselves.

Robin wanted to say he was a victim of flimsy propriety. Knowing Lucina, she would rightly respond he had brought it on himself.

After that brief judging stint, the exalt seemed content to ignore the lot of them. Now she stared at the roaring effigy of Grima that spread six marble wings over the altar. To be fair, the stonewrought dragon was as impressive as it was ugly. A thing of nightmares, it brandished rows of spindly teeth that receded into a gullet black as night, its sinuous jaws and throat bulging in life-like relief. It loomed over everyone in the chamber, leered at its mortal audience with cruel ruby eyes. Grima looked exactly like the sort of monster that would terrorize mankind.

Interesting as the statue was, Lucina surely didn't miss how the Grimleal were gawping at her. Not least of all, dear Father himself.

"What has become of the faith, if anexaltcan enter the house of Grima unchallenged?" the king muttered. He faced the audience innocuously, as if he hadn't just spent the last three minutes sidling across the stage toward Robin. The low cut collar on his robes gave him the appearance of a floating grey bust.

Robin folded his hands into his sleeves and smiled. "Is the faith so weak that it can't withstand somebody's mere presence?"

Validar scoffed. "No, of course not. But there are tenets to which we, as Grimleal, have a sacred responsibility to bear. Else what is that which separates us from the common man? From the Ylisseans _?_ We cannot be servants of Grima if we fail in our basic duty to revere him. We cannot call ourselves Grimleal if we do not follow the pillars of the faith."

"Except that the Third Decree demands respect for any convert, potential converts included. And the decrees constitute a pillar of the faith."

"The Third Decree—" Validar pursed his lips. "No. Preposterous. A spawn of Naga is no convert, can be no convert. The exalt cannot be a Grimleal! Lord Grima would never suffer such insolence, as only a select few have a place in the shadow beneath his wings—"

"Spared. Only a select few may be _spared,_ " Robin said.

"For certainty, an exalt would never be one of them. So _her_ presence here," Validar gestured with a flex of his long fingers, "is a needless insult."

"Then, does one come to sermon only to seek salvation? Isn't that cowardly?"

Robin knew it was only because of the growing crowd that Validar showed any restraint. The pews filled beneath a throng of civilians, and more people milled down the aisles. Faces peered into the stage, searching the robed figures for signs of the prince.

There was always a higher turn up when Robin was rumoured to be around, the acolytes would say. While the Grimleal welcomed the extra tribute, a few members resented that the attendance of the common folk was not out of obligation to Grima, but to flightier things, like if the prince was in town that day, or the weather.

"This is not about what personal reasons the exalt would deign to attend a service of Grima," Validar said. "This is about an affront to tradition. To our lord."

"I can't imagine Grima being so small and petty that he gets offended by the mundane activities of a mere mortal."

"We speak of the _exalt._ Heir of the wretched bloodline who put our lord to his thousand-year slumber, allowed the Divine Dragon to usurp his dominion, and first upon whom Grima will wrought his retribution—"

"If whatever Grima does will come to pass, then does it matter who they are or what they do? We already know the outcome won't change. The Fell Dragon will have his vengeance. All things unto Grima, in the end. Including the exalt."

To Validar's displeasure, the nearby Grimleal were nodding to themselves. Robin could see them rationalizing Lucina's presence as a sign. After all, never before had there been an exalt willing to hear Grima's Truth, not even venerable Emmeryn herself. And if the _exalt_ was willing, then surely, the world was next to come around.

"My son. You sound more and more like Ardri as of late." Validar looked toward the ancient priest, who stood with his withered hands clasped and head bowed.

Robin knew Ardri. Ardri had once been a zealot, whose taste for blood had earned him notoriety among his fellow cultists. " _Old age has changed him_ ," the Grimleal would mutter. " _A lifetime of serving Grima, only to become a coward as the hour approaches."_

Validar flicked his hand in Ardri's direction. "To lose yourself in the inevitability of fate is to become complacent. Certainly Grima's rise shall mark the fall of this world, but it is how we face the End Times that proves our worth. The mode by which our lord shall judge us. Complacency is something no Grimleal should aspire to."

He wheeled with a dramatic flutter of robes. In doing so, his gaze fell again on Lucina. Validar's nostrils flared. She noticed him by way of a sidelong glance, but then resumed staring at Grima.

Validar's eyes snapped past her to the crowd.

 _Will you do it? Draw attention to the fact that the exalt is in attendance today? Let the audience speculate what that means for the faith?_

Lucina was in no hurry to reveal herself. So far, just sitting there like she belonged to the place had made an effective disguise. Beside the exalt sat an elderly couple, completely oblivious, and the nobles in the row alternated between glancing at the king and leaning toward one another conspiratorially. The latter group clearly wasn't talking about matters of the faith.

Validar's chest puffed with a breath. For a moment, he held it, looking as if he might explode.

Then he exhaled. Shaking his head, Validar strode toward the rest of the Grimleal. He picked someone—Chalard, of all people—and, in a sweeping gesture, directed his underling to the centre stage.

Robin watched with interest. Being the hierophant and a rare presence, Robin normally would have given at least a token speech. Not that he minded one less thing to bother with today.

"Make yourself useful for once," Validar said.

"But I always—" Chalard cut off when he saw the look on Validar's face. His next words came out a squeak. "Yes, my lord."

The priest began shuffling toward the podium. Though propelled by the force of Validar's scrutiny, his movements were slow, painfully slow. With one deadened foot dragging over the tiles, Chalard managed to cross twenty inches in what felt like half as many seconds.

Then something stopped him. A large shadow had broken from the other Grimleal, moved to confront the king.

"Exarch," Algol addressed Validar.

The king just stood there.

"By your permission," Algol continued, "I would have words with the audience today." His request was met by more silence. He coughed. "If you recall, I—"

"Yes, I _recall_ ," Validar said, waving away his inferior.

The corners of Algol's mouth contorted. He made to speak again, but Validar was already striding into the shadow beneath Grima. Chalard stared at Algol for a moment, before he too limped away, not wanting to incite the king's wrath by being even slower.

Left behind, the archpriest growled something unintelligible.

While Chalard continued his journey to the lectern, the other Grimleal spread out. The acolytes with candles filed down the curving staircases at either end of the stage, and the rest of the Grimleal loosely surrounded the podium to complete the formation. Together, they formed an approximate circle. A circle to represent the thousand-year cycle of Grima's resurrection. Very holy. Very significant. Robin took a spot close to the platform edge, which offered a broad view of the cathedral and its occupants. The acolyte standing there reverently stepped aside for him.

Algol was last to move. He stared angrily as everyone else fell into place. Finally, he skulked to the back, where he could stare angrily from the darkness instead.

They watched the elder priest raise his shrivelled hands. After a curt address of the audience, Chalard began a speech in that nasally monotone of his. He mentioned something or another about sacrifice. Certainly, Chalard _was_ about sacrifice, as long as it was anybody and anything except himself.

Robin had always found the priest hard to listen to. Once again, he found himself fighting the urge to yawn. Occasionally, Chalard would pause, gazing off as if lost in time, long enough that the gathered attendance—commoner, noble, and Grimleal alike—would shift restlessly. Amidst a sea of glazed looks, Lucina seemed to be the only one paying attention.

Robin supposed he couldn't blame Validar for wanting things to be as boring as possible. Boring meant normal, and Validar needed normalcy if he wanted to run a capital full of fickle aristocrats.

"For nothing… nothing worthwhile comes without sacrifice," the old priest was saying.

Excellent. A platitude for the ages. Robin would raise his wineglass if he had one.

Silly, rambling Chalard. Nearly a year ago, when Robin had called upon the most bloodthirsty and powerful Grimleal to join his armies, the elder priest hadn't answered. Some light probing revealed that the confrontation with Gregor had left Chalard fairly well traumatized.

As that story went, the Grimleal priest had been on his way to the Dragon's Table, when he was accosted by 'Ylissean highwaymen'. Not only did they rob him of his efforts to serve Grima, they had seized his scriptures— _"To burn!"_ Chalard had cried, eyes bugging as if he were reliving that horrifying moment.

The Ylisseans, allegedly relishing the thought of their victim hopping one-footed over the scorching rocks, had forced Chalard at swordpoint to discard a single shoe. During his retreat, many times had the priest needed to nurse his blistered foot, a wound that still crippled him decades later.

Though Chalard seemed convinced of his book's sacreligious destruction, _Grima's Word_ was, in fact, gathering dust among Robin's personal effects in the eastern front. At some point, Gregor had passed the scriptures to Robin, saying, _"Here, Plegian book. Has evil dragon. Maybe you enjoy it more than Gregor."_ And when Robin had questioned if he really wanted to part with it: _"Lucina, Nah, Owain and others all grown now. They all saw Gregor's bounty much already. Besides, it's just old book, not gold or pretty gems. Ah! Sorry, Gregor didn't gift you better with gold or pretty gems. Hope you accept anyway."_

Chalard seldom ventured from the capital again. The Heartland offered a safe venue for unsavoury practices, so why would he risk heading to the borders where Ylisseans might find him? Especially Shepherds?

It was fine and well. Like General Campari, Chalard could stay. Robin had meant to draw out the most dangerous Grimleal from the capital, and Chalard was not one of them.

Robin blinked, aware of some nearby acolytes shifting uncomfortably. Someone had broken the circle and was heading toward the podium. Unsurprisingly, it was Archpriest Algol. Robin cast around and found the king, who seemed cross, though Robin didn't know whether that was because of the intruder or their earlier conversation. He made eye contact with Lucina, who looked back questioningly. He shrugged.

Well, Algol's respectful petition to the exarch had failed. Now it seemed the archpriest would resort to the method he knew best. Force.

Algol strode across the stage. Chalard, in a characteristic lack of awareness, held his chin raised and hand aloft, basking in the exultation of having said something especially poignant. Then Algol barged behind the podium and sent the much smaller priest sprawling. Chalard's squeal went ignored. Algol peeled back his hood, revealing a snarling face and a balding scalp.

"Praise be to Grima!" he screamed. "And damnation to all who oppose his will!"

The audience stared at him. Save for the white scar across his nose, his face was already turning a blotchy purple. Algol thrust one meaty hand toward Grima. "Feast your eyes upon the likeness of our god the Fell Dragon, and know that you are unworthy."

When he breathed, the air hissed between his teeth. He clenched his outstretched hand, as if crushing something invisible.

Maybe this was part of some plan. First send dithering Chalard, then when the audience grew bored, bring out the zealot. It seemed to be working; the acolytes had stopped their fidgeting, and the city-folk fixated on Algol, shocked.

"So far, you have listened to soft words. Words meant to suggest, to coax you into following the sacred tenets. But let me ask you, is Grima's _judgement_ a suggestion? Will _he_ coax you with sentimental speeches? No! You face oblivion, all of you!

"I am Algol, archpriest to the Fell God, and I will speak to you the truth. Too long has humanity grown arrogant. They claim places in this world for themselves, cling onto measly possessions, fight amongst themselves for what belongs to others, when all that is this world shall return to Grima. Mankind lives in utter darkness, like blind, writhing worms. Many will not know the Fell Dragon's mercy, for they do not devote themselves to him. That includes you, who have gathered here today.

"Think now! What have you done to glorify his name? What have you sacrificed to appease his wrath? Do you believe that by standing here, you will be spared?"

Spittle flew from his mouth. His lips glistened. He did not bother wiping them. His eyes were bloodshot, and they roved the crowd, daring attendees to challenge him. "No! Plegia shares humanity's wretchedness just the same. In a twisted turn of history, we have claimed an apostate as king. We forget where our roots lie. We forget what makes us strong. Think again! Why do we claim our home here, in this desert, when farther east, west, north, south, we could have all the resources we need?"

Maybe this wasn't, in fact, part of the plan. The crowd was whispering now, and Robin could see unsettlement spreading among them.

"Our ancestors built this very capital so that we never forget the events of our lord's downfall and our failure to serve him. This"—Algol slammed the lectern with his fist, clay chips spraying from the impact—"is the punishment we endure to prove our devotion. That we may remember our place and our duty to the Fell God. But do we? Do we remember? We spend our days in decadence, feasting and gamboling on the labours of our outer holdings."

There was some truth in Algol's criticism. The capital's livelihood _was_ propped up by settlements in better places.

No matter how holy the site, people couldn't live on sand and sunlight alone. For that reason, most Plegians didn't dwell in the Heartland so much as were dispersed along the Sajerei River, close to the Feroxi border, or by the vibrant coasts far west and south. If not for the war, Southport and Westport stood to become richer than the capital. The coastal cities had everything they needed: rich soil, clean water, lumber, a constant flow of goods and gold. Meanwhile, the capital had a giant dragon corpse, some walls, and... nothing else, really.

So Validar sent hordes of servants northward to gather water every day. Caravans loaded with foodstuffs and tributes arrived at the gates every sundown. Over time, the king had bought a tenuous position with gold, feasts, and promises of safety.

Incidentally, the effort had made the Heartland a haven for the kind of indolent behaviour that repulsed Algol.

"All the while, agents on this land work against the faith." Algol raised his fist again. That unfortunate lectern. "You know them: our closest and most bitter enemies, the Ylisseans. Heretics!"

Of course, a Grimleal sermon wasn't a Grimleal sermon without a tirade about _Ylisseans_. At the mention of their easterly neighbours, the audience booed. Algol grinned at Lucina, baring teeth.

Oh, he wouldn't _do_ anything, of course. Not so as long as the exalt remained an esteemed guest in the house of Grima. But Algol was the Truthspeaker now. His words were practically gospel, according to whatever tradition had devised such a thing. He could voice his disdain with impunity. In theory. Robin suspected that if Algol tested the extent of his new-found holy rights, the archpriest might just find himself disappointed.

"For millennia have the heathens extended into our lands, seeking to choke out the faith. They brag about holding the favour of their false god. They claim some divine purpose to their degeneracy. Many among you have lived long enough to remember their atrocious acts: twenty-one years ago, Ylissean demons swarmed our towns, slaughtering in their path every last Plegian man, woman, and newborn.

"They had heard the legends that spoke of a child who would awaken the Fell God. Such was their fear, the heretics had plotted to annihilate us before such a thing could come to fruition. What schemes they engineered! Not only did the infidels spare no one in their sight, they competed on who could kill more Plegians. They made a sport of hunting those who fled. They left homes standing only so that they could easier slay any civilians who dared return. They destroyed swathes of our farmland so thoroughly that nothing would grow for generations, hoping that if we did not die beneath the sword, we would die by starvation. To this day, there are entire villages with nothing left but firepits and skeletons.

"All this," he bellowed, "they did in the name of the one they called _exalt._ "

When Ylissean scholars wrote their accounts of the Six Years' War, Emmeryn had commanded them to lay bare the shame of her people's past. Knowing that whoever controlled written history controlled the truth, she had famously decreed that her father's atrocities would never be obscured by a sympathetic quill.

Robin had leafed through a few such tomes in Ylisstol's library. The tyrant exalt had made generals out of his most extreme followers, then set them on Plegia with little oversight. Many of those generals had been young, overzealous. Some had wielded cruelty with the expectation that terror would drive their foes before them.

Throughout the proclamation, Lucina remained composed. Like Emmeryn might have been... except infinitely colder. A Plegian who looked at her, not understanding, might assume Lucina was only upset that such scandals had been brought forward. They might assume, as Validar, Gangrel, and countless others had silenced their dissenters, the exalt would wish to silence the archpriest who taunted her from the podium.

They wouldn't know that Lucina, as an heir to the exalted bloodline, was more well-read than Robin on Ylisse's deeds during the Six Years' War. That any fury she held was directed at her country's shameful actions.

Algol had paused to let the outrage grow. Grow it did, voices calling for vengeance.

"But the heretics could never have succeeded, for Grima's will cannot be stopped. Despite all their profane ways, not once has Plegia fallen. For millennia have we forced them back. So the cycle continues, never to be broken until the Fell shadow descends upon this world. And continue, I tell you, the cycle must. If there was one thing that apostate Gangrel did right, it was to take the fight to the heretics themselves, wipe out the wretches once and for all.

"Can you find it in your soul to do the same? As speaker, I give you this truth: our course is to take up arms and serve the war effort against our ancient enemies. To visit upon them sixfold what they have done to us. To drive them and their heretical ways from the continent, if not the whole world."

In the wake of his echoing words were some cheers, some claps, though these were half-hearted compared to any previous outrage. Nobles smiled and nodded along. A woman patted the fingers of one hand against her other palm. Their gestures were smug. Openly insincere. Why yes, they were eager to head off to the battlefield—that was exactly why they were enjoying life in the capital instead of picking up a pike and travelling to some dusty outpost, wasn't it?

Algol flushed a deeper purple. His grin faded to disgust. "Yet here we stay, in what is supposed to be the stronghold of our faith, while others farm the food we set on our tables, bring trinkets for our indulgence, do our fighting. We _hide._ " He jabbed his finger at the various well-dressed parties in the crowd. "Can _you_ say we have become anything but weak? You noble houses, who pledge support with your empty, vapid words!"

The feigned applause petered out.

"You, who have nothing to boast about but the unearned blood running in your veins! You present yourself beneath Grima's gaze, and you dare offer cowardice? What use are you?"

Silence. Robin spotted more than a few slack jaws in the audience. No matter how open the secret or how true the words, an insult was a grave affront to a Plegian. One that was often repaid in blood. It wasn't a crime in this country to defend one's honour using violence, and people had been killed over lesser words.

As Robin expected, the booing returned, louder than ever. It soon rose to a racket of anger and threats. Some nobles stayed silent, apparently deciding that speaking out was below their station, while retainers cupped their hands around their mouths and hollered back.

The protests only enraged Algol further. He raised his voice, effortlessly cutting through the din.

"Were you so brave, you would find yourselves on the frontlines! A single soldier has done more for this country than all of you combined! You? You clog the court with your inane complaints, your petty, self-serving little games—"

So close. Had Algol continued directing the focus onto the Ylisseans, he could have united the audience against a common enemy. But Algol had always lacked self-control when it mattered the most.

And like that, he lost them. He didn't seem to care; he continued berating them, continued pointing, as if to goad members of the audience into a brawl.

Robin casually glanced toward the back of the stage. Validar's face was thunder.

Robin knew that look. That look could be felt physically, like being grazed by daggers, and it was fixated right on Algol. In the king's two-year reign, Validar had worked so painstakingly to secure the populace's favour, and the archpriest had undermined it all in one rant. Though what did the king expect, using riches and parties to buy a precarious loyalty from the houses?

Impressively, it took several more seconds for Algol to stop talking. By then, the audience didn't care that he had trailed off. They continued to holler. One noblewoman, whose pale curls reminded Robin of Maribelle, gestured wildly at her retainers to attack the archpriest.

Well, this was getting out of control. Maybe it was time to step in.

Robin raised his hand and called out, "Behold, Grima's power!"

A sheaf of parchment in his sleeve disintegrated. The rubies in Grima's eye sockets flared.

On the ceiling above the effigy, a blot of crimson bloomed. From its depths cast a fierce glow that crowned Grima with a dread halo, washed his marble wings in a bloody tinge.

The screams and hollers died almost at once. People pointed, gasping.

As much as Robin had said nothing would happen, it paid to have a contingency plan. Admittedly, he had been saving the trick for when Chalard's speech became unbearable, but he supposed this would work.

The rift in the ceiling spread with the hunger of growing flames. Its ragged edges crept over granite vaults and painted reliefs, first consuming the mural of Pestilence where twisted creatures loped along a hellscape, then the mural of Reckoning that depicted a land erupting in fissures. Red poured over the mouths of the windowed alcoves, sealing away the outside light. Shadow eclipsed the floor of the cathedral.

Gone was the stained glass and its indigo hue. A seething, apocalyptic red bathed the audience's awed expressions. People watched, transfixed, as the rupture expanded toward the cathedral galleries.

Soon, the roof looked as though it had been ripped away, revealing another reality: an enactment of the fabled Last Dusk. For a supposed sunset, it looked wrong. The clouds weren't so much clouds but black miasma. The sky had the colour and texture of drying blood. Its expanse boiled with the intensity of a storm, crackled with red veins for lightning.

The sight drove the Grimleal to their knees. They raised their hands as verses rose to their lips. There was no orderliness to their chanting: they chose verses from Reckoning to Destruction to ones Robin couldn't make out; some cultists recited with a strong, undeterred voice, while others quickly grew breathless from blabbering as many lines as they could. Chalard had curled into a ball and was squealing for mercy.

Attendees shrank into their seats in astonishment. A few of them clung to the pews, fearing they might get pulled upward and be lost in the strange energies. Among the crowd, Lucina remained singularly unimpressed. She knew whatever Robin did by this point was an illusion.

On the stage, only Validar and Robin remained standing. Dear Father recognized the spell for what it was, of course, but he wouldn't complain if the move saved the Grimleal from losing credibility.

Now to draw the curtains, figuratively speaking. Robin drew on his shadow lurking behind the spectacle. Behind the roiling miasma, the glow flickered with the foreboding, like the moment before a thunderclap. He pulled again, felt the fabric of the spell unravel. Threads of energy popped, static in his veins.

The light began to die. Crimson faded to a dull maroon, and the movement of the smoke slowed to a churn. Stray bolts lit the clouds, but those too became smaller, fewer. Eventually, all colour bled away. Cultists reached their hands toward a tombstone-grey sky. Robin watched the darkness distort and fall across the audience's fearful expressions. Faces grew indistinct. People became frightened, huddled silhouettes.

In moments, the cathedral was encompassed in complete dark.

For several long seconds, all that could be heard was the Grimleal's disjointed chanting. Then when it became apparent that no light would return, the audience's cries began again. There were voices begging Grima for forgiveness. There were shouts of praise in the Fell Dragon's name, though these were tinged with fear. A few people, intent on fleeing, stumbled into one another or tripped and fell on the tiles. Curses were thrown, along with what sounded like a few fists.

Time to move. Robin jumped off the stage. Landing silently, he counted the steps in his head: four, five, six.

"Lucina," he called. She probably couldn't hear him over the ruckus. Robin crouched and raised his hood so that his red eyes would be visible to anyone directly in front of him. "Luci—"

From the darkness came a shimmer. Robin barely managed to duck before Falchion passed right through where his neck had been.

He had long suspected the sword's odd luminescence was visible only to himself. From how the voices surrounding them continued to pray, curse, or a strange mix of both, Lucina's neighbours hadn't noticed a thing. As obnoxious as Falchion's glow was, Robin counted himself lucky to have seen it then.

When Robin straightened, the sword was gone, returned to its sheath. Lucina must have realized who was in front of her.

"What are you doing?" she asked quietly, calmly, as if she hadn't nearly beheaded him. Robin supposed he could only blame himself for the surprise red eyes in the dark. Maybe he could have warned her beforehand, but what was the fun in that?

"It's time to get out of here," Robin said. "Good form on that swing, by the way."

* * *

Lucina glanced down the corridor behind them.

"They'll be glad we're gone. Trust me on that one," Robin said.

He had deliberately avoided causing trouble at the sermon, or at least, trouble that could be attached to his name. With the council already facing a political disaster, it was better to let them believe they had a way out. Robin's departure would be like a bad dream passing. He could imagine their decisions from here: they would probably cast off the prince's speech, if not his visit alongside the exalt, as baseless rumours. The lesser noblemen and the servants would have to be bribed or threatened. Maybe the council was already working on it, seeing as Jamil and the other minister had been absent from the sermon.

At any rate, the focus wouldn't be on Robin and Lucina yet. That meant it was time to leave.

Not as if he needed to say so. Lucina walked briskly, like she might leave Robin behind if he were too slow. He almost had to jog to keep up.

"Well," Robin said, "what do you want to do with the Grimleal?"

Lucina eyed him. "You're asking me."

"Of course."

She turned her attention back to the hallway. The tiles stretching before them were cracked, unswept. They passed by a blackened sconce that looked as if it hadn't been lit in months. The corridor was one of several disused exits to the capital's alleys, and it was still very much attached to the cathedral. "This is not an appropriate place for such a discussion."

"If you're concerned about being overheard, don't worry. We can't hear them, and they can't hear us. That's how the spell works." Around them was dead silence, even though they had just left a room full of screaming people.

"I see," she said.

"Come on. You could at least admit that one was good." He had taken pages from a Ruin, Elfire, and Thunder tome, crossed out some of the lethal bits, written a formula to link the rest, and abracadabra. Evil fireworks. "No? I have more where that comes from."

"More parlour tricks? I'm sure."

Ahead, the corridor broke into sunlight. From the looks of it, the day was shaping up to be bright and hot, Robin's least favourite combination.

"What's the difference between a lethal spell and a spectacle?" he asked.

"I am not in the mood for your jokes."

"It was a genuine question. The answer is distance, by the way," Robin said. "Parlour tricks, as you put it, can still be plenty dangerous. You wouldn't stick your hand in one, for starters. Even if the spell doesn't hit you, it might catch on a pillar or something flammable. Next thing you know, the whole place is burning down. Now imagine I wasn't careful back there, in a room with hundreds of people. Things could have gone badly."

Lucina finally slowed down even though the exit was near. "You are saying that is what you could have done, but chose not to."

"An obvious thought, isn't it? Nearly every Grimleal in the capital has gathered in one place. They do it every week, actually. If you want to get rid of some of the most troublesome people in the country, there's no better time."

She considered his words for a moment. "After all that has been said and done, I don't see why you should bring this up now _._ "

"You've met the Grimleal on their so-called best behaviour. Congratulations on being the first exalt who has ever attended a Grimleal sermon, by the way. Granted, it was just once, but the alternative is that I never mention the sermon, we never attend, we never watch Chalard act like he's a normal, everyday, garden-variety preacher—"

"Wait," she said. "Chalard?"

It was natural that she took pause at the name. Chalard was legendary among the Shepherds, even if he was a disappointment in person.

"The one and only," he said. "First speaker on the stage."

"Oh." Her brow furrowed.

"Yes. That frail old man demeanor of his is deceiving, isn't it? Just the kind of thing Validar is going for. Chalard is too afraid of retaliation to cause any real harm these days, but you know what he's capable of."

She frowned, trying to reconcile this information.

"To continue the hypothetical situation where we never visit," Robin said, "if I then told you that there was a building full of Grimleal, and you had the opportunity to wipe them out, would you take it?"

The crease between her eyebrows deepened. She looked at him with suspicion. "What sort of question is that?"

"The yes-or-no kind."

"One or the other, is it? As if such a thing could ever be so simple," Lucina said. She exhaled with a small 'hrmph' sound. "No. Not without investigating that building first."

"Right." Robin nodded. "Now you have."

"Very well. But you didn't make that suggestion so you could speak about hypotheticals."

"Fair enough, I didn't." He had done it on a whim, though she wouldn't be amused if he told her that. "The reality remains that there is a building behind us, and it is full of Grimleal, many of whom are liable to become very inconvenient, very soon. Personally, I don't care for inconveniences. But as per the agreement we made, I realize it's not up to me.

"The question, then, is if you believe this world is better off without the Grimleal. Because for my next parlour trick, I will make your answer come true." He tilted his head. "Mostly true."

She stopped beneath the threshold, two paces away from sunlight. Her eyes narrowed. "... What?"

"There are," he counted again, just to make sure, "sixty-one Elfire pages stashed throughout the cathedral. Most of them are scattered beneath the stage where I was standing." Robin wiggled his fingers at her. "You can't see it, but I'm holding the triggers."

Lucina peered at him. Trying to see if he was bluffing. "Even High Sage Miriel had doubted that remote casting was possible," she said.

"Does Laurent agree?" he asked, to which there was no response. "Granted, it is a lot weaker, hence the sixty-one. You can't do it on a whim with any page from any tome. The setup took months." Robin smiled faintly. "You know, nobody looks twice at a lowly cleaner."

He turned, pointed. Halfway down the hall, one of the ceiling vaults they had passed under erupted in a blaze. A gout of fire struck the floor, spread, and filled the corridor wall to wall. With only two directions to go, flames flooded toward them. Heatwaves gusted against Robin's robes.

"It's sixty-one if you exclude that display," he said over the roar. The flames guttered on the tiles long before reaching the both of them. That had been a single spell, and the hallway was all stone. No lasting destruction there.

"So," Robin said. "If you give me the word, we'll get somewhere safe, and I'll invoke all of those pages. I can promise you that the incantation will be," he flexed his hand, felt the tug of magical threads in his veins, "several seconds shy of instant. Sorry. Sixty-one spells at once—even I'm not that amazing. Though I should say, I suspect Validar would survive. Father shares some likeness with roaches in that regard."

"Is this," Lucina said slowly, "some kind of test?"

"Let's call it a contingency plan. You can never have too many of those."

"How can you plot such a thing, then turn around and burden me with that decision, as if you can wash your hands of the responsibility?"

"I'll take as much responsibility as you wish. Before then, I'm just giving you an option. Of course you can say no, and I'll disarm those sixty-one pages, no harm done. But those priests are going to be a lot of trouble later that can be prevented now. The next time we meet them, it will probably be on a battlefield."

"Even still," Lucina said. "It is one thing to ambush soldiers who are prepared for such threats. It is one thing, still, to set torch to a military outpost. This, however…"

"Is murder, yes. I just offered to kill my own father, for the love of the gods. As much as he probably won't die, but that's beside the point. The Grimleal will go on to attack your people, or fund thugs and assassins to do it. They'll attack my people, who are technically your people. They'll probably attack your friends, too. I can think of a few members who would love nothing more than to slaughter a few Ylisseans, and the closer to the exalt, the better. Not to say that yes, you should kill them all in a fiery blaze, but you know there's a risk in letting them run around."

"I…" Lucina said. "No. Enough. Absolutely not. There are civilians in that building, even if they are Grimleal. Even if some of those around them have done unspeakable things."

In the shadowed threshold, Robin raised his hand.

"Grima," Lucina warned.

"'No' it is." He pulled on the threads, and they came apart like cobwebs. With every severed link, he felt the spell on the other side crumble. His mana, now released, swirled beneath the floorboards, along the beams, the underside of the pews, wherever the Elfire pages had been hidden. Within moments, the motes would vanish. The Grimleal would never know how much danger they had been in.

"Done," Robin said. "Those spells won't be seeing any use now."

She was still staring at him.

"Did you think I was going to do it anyway? We're not exactly at a safe distance."

Lucina turned and stepped into the sun, the hem of her cloak drifting around her calves. He joined her in the alleyway. The path before them meandered between uneven rows of clay-coloured buildings. Clouds of dust floated over crates and barrels. It was uncomfortably warm.

"Let me be clear here," she said. "The entire idea _was_ terrible."

"Zero for two, then," Robin responded. "To be fair, I wasn't expecting the sermon to go the way it did."

" _You_ are saying you didn't expect something?" The corner of her mouth quirked. He might have mistaken the gesture for a show of humour if it weren't so cold.

"I'm a tactician, not a clairvoyant." He shrugged. "I'll also admit I'm surprised you don't seem to take more issue with what happened, considering that one of them tried to incite war on Ylisse in your face."

"No," she said. "It is troubling. But I wasn't there so that I could stop him." She shook her head. "That one's hatred is… understandable."

"Algol," he said.

"Is that his name? I've seen a few of his kind in Ylisstol Castle's own halls. If the circumstances were slightly different, he might have been one of my councilors."

Robin could imagine it. Switch the countries around, change Gangrel for Lucina's grandfather, and the tirade resembled the words of an Ylissean zealot.

"Algol almost became exarch," Robin said. "He was an archpriest for a long time, longer than even Validar. This on top of being a weaponmaster and not half-bad with dark magic. Unlike Father, though, Algol isn't willing to play games. He hates nobles. Really, he hates anybody who isn't at least a Grimleal elder, and he hates most elder priests, too. By the time of the summit that would decide the new exarch, Validar had two of the high houses backing him, while Algol thought his devotion was enough. You know how that turned out."

"He lived through the war, didn't he?"

"He did." Robin rubbed his chin. "I had considered cutting his speech off, but I figured you wouldn't appreciate that."

"No. The idea might have been poor. Nonetheless…"

He waited for her to continue. She exhaled and looked down the dust-ridden street. "I came to see its necessity then. I thought on what others would have done, were they in my place. My grandfather would have—and did—order the Plegians' execution. All of them, without hesitation.

"To him, what to do was a simple question with a simple answer. He wouldn't have considered the circumstances that drove the people to join the Grimleal. He wouldn't have cared that many believers were civilians. He saw them all as a disease to be eradicated.

"Aunt Emmeryn… she understood the price of simple answers. She had been paying for them all her life—she could never have followed in my grandfather's steps, committed the same faults that he did. No. My aunt spent her lifetime doing what nobody before her thought to do. She listened to the Plegians, and I know she would have listened to the Grimleal. Despite knowing the risks, knowing that they cursed her, hated her, she alone would have done it. Now that she is no longer here, who in Ylisse can do the same?"

The question hung in the air, but the answer was obvious. No one. Though if she asked him, Robin didn't think the Grimleal particularly deserved it. Some people in this world were beyond negotiation. More of them joined the Grimleal every day.

Lucina continued, "My aunt's convictions led to her death. Was she strong for them, or foolish?"

 _At least Emmeryn never ran from her principles. And neither did…_

"Many of my own people had called her a fool," Lucina said. "When she died, they saw her passing as vindication, and espoused their views louder."

He remembered that. He remembered the sound of teeth crunching when Chrom's fist had connected with one nobleman's jaw. Orin Galland. A younger cousin of Duke Galland. He had served in the Six Years' War and went on to be one of Emmeryn's most vocal opponents. After a particularly tactless comment, Lucina's father had nearly beaten the man senseless. It had taken Frederick, Vaike, and Sully dogpiling Chrom to hold him back.

" _Galland deserved it, alright,"_ Sully had said, spitting. _"Would've loved to plant my knuckles into his fat lips myself. But I couldn't let the captain do something he'd regret."_

"Strong. Foolish. Those things aren't mutually exclusive," Robin said. "Why stop at those labels, though? Emmeryn was Emmeryn."

Lucina was silent, and he supposed that was as close to an agreement as he would get. Still, Robin thought he could understand why such a dichotomy had happened. In the aftermath of Emmeryn's death, a reeling Ylisse had scrambled to make something out of her life and legacy. The result was two opposing views that drove one another to ever greater extremes.

Lucina, barely crowned months prior, was caught between a great light and a great shadow. Whatever impression she left on the world might be eclipsed by Emmeryn's and her grandfather's deeds. It seemed Lucina was aware of this, as she evidently traced and retraced the paths of her predecessors to shape her own course.

Amidst the reflection on her exalted forebears, however, there was one person she didn't bring up.

She didn't speak of her father.

After their agreement was formed, Robin had been sure that Lucina would demand answers. Demand _why_. Why? He still wasn't sure how he would answer that question, but it was a question he had to accept all the same. Robin had been certain it was coming, because it had to be. Hadn't it?

But so far, there had been nothing. Nothing. As if Lucina had put it all away behind the mask she donned in becoming exalt.

Nothing.

Robin would be dishonest if he said that didn't make him a little uneasy.

* * *

The interior of the dragon's skull formed an immense cavern. High above, three sunbeams shone through three eye sockets, illuminating cliff-like ridges draped in moss. Outside light drew white zig-zags between the dragon's fangs. At the floor of the jaw, spiny protrusions twisted from the shadows. Dozens and dozens of teeth, curving haphazardly, each as tall as a tower and still sharp enough to impale. Dark lumps of moss settled against them like rot. The air was rank with ash and sour vegetation.

Robin hoisted the heavy pack on his shoulder and continued down ramp. The well-trod path wound between two rows of monstrous teeth and into darkness. He heard bestial rumbling and the click of nails on rock. As he rounded an incisor, he spotted hunched, reptilian shapes lurking in the shade.

Then, there were the eyes. From the shade leered pairs of pupils, bright like candle flames. They tracked Robin and Lucina's movement down the path.

"I don't appreciate any more surprises," Lucina said, gaze cast outward. "What is this place?"

"Grima's skull. More specifically, the inside of it."

"Enough."

"It's the Roost," Robin said. "Home to most of Plegia's remaining wyverns."

Remaining, indeed. Most of the nests were abandoned. There might have been forty or fifty of the creatures who still claimed this place as home. Decades ago, as Robin heard, wyverns had numbered in the thousands, crowding the jaw, nesting on nigh every surface of the cliffs up to the eye sockets. When hunting, they would fly in enormous packs, so numerous as to dampen the sun's rays from hitting the sands.

Before his death, old Wyvern Lord Orton would tell Robin of those days. Once, Plegia had boasted an aerial force to rival Ylisse's Pegasus Knights. Years of war had seen the wyverns slaughtered alongside the men. And to think all of it had taken place before Robin even set his world-destroying foot on the continent.

Orton had wanted the wyverns to recover, as the ongoing war would surely see them extinct. After expressing this, the old man had gone and died in a skirmish.

Well, it had been straightforward to pull out some obscure scripture that proclaimed the creatures kin to Grima, and therefore sacred. Robin had left most of the wyverns home, too, even though they would have been useful in his campaigns. Why? So the sayings went, Grima was the god of dying wishes, among all death-related things, and Robin had decided to grant an old man his.

It was just a whim. Nothing more.

"And your friend is here?" Lucina asked, sounding skeptical.

Barely had the words left her that the airflow shifted. With a _flap_ that blasted wind against Robin, a dark shape extending huge wings swooped down. Talons slammed into the dirt, showering Robin's coat with pebbles. The wyvern reared, opened its jaws, and howled. Fire puffed from the creature's throat. The ash in the air thickened almost to the point of choking.

In the next instant, the exalt had Falchion drawn and pointed to the wyvern's snout.

The fire guttered. The creature stilled, then went cross-eyed inspecting the weapon. Nostrils flared, gave the blade a sniff. The wyvern slid its gaze to Robin for a moment, then blinked. From its throat came a rumbling sound. It might have smelled his blood on the sword. It might not have liked that.

"Peace," Robin said to Lucina. "Stormbolt does that to every newcomer. She doesn't mean harm, mostly."

Stormbolt had done that to him, too, when Orton had showed him to the skull for the first time.

Lucina spared him a glance. Very slowly, the blade retracted.

"That's the exalt for you, friend." Robin gave the wyvern an upward nod. "Maybe you ought to think before trying to scare people. Some of them won't dive for the nearest bale of moss."

Stormbolt grunted. She spat a cinder, which smouldered in the gravel.

He turned to Lucina, who still watched the creature warily. "This is Stormbolt. Otherwise the grouchiest wyvern you'll know." Not that he blamed Stormbolt. Living through the slaughter of one's kin would make anyone grouchy.

"Interesting choice of friend that you have," Lucina said. "I'm not certain what I should have expected."

"Sure, wyverns aren't as soft or stately as pegasi. But if we want to go to Ylisse, Stormbolt here will cut down weeks of travel to days."

Stormbolt was grumbling.

"Here, this is Lucina," Robin said helpfully. "She sliced up my hand. Want to look?" He opened his palm. The welts had bled into the folds of his skin like ink.

The wyvern stared at him.

Robin let the pack slip from his shoulder. The gear and provisions hit the ground with a thump. He rolled the soreness from his arm. "It's been thirty-two days, like I said it'd be. How about some fresh air?"


	5. Grima's Mercy

Stormbolt banked toward the tree line, then descended. Pumping her wings, she alighted on the hard-packed dirt just beyond the shaded canopy. Dust clouds peeled from the ground in sheets and billowed before her. The wyvern's talons hit the gravel with a dry crunch. She lowered her haunches, growling impatiently.

Robin unhooked his boots from the stirrups, swung around in the saddle, then heaved himself off the wyvern's back. The impact against the ground jarred his sore knees. Steadying himself with a hand on Stormbolt's scales, Robin glanced at Lucina to see if he should help her down, but she was already pushing herself from the pillion saddle. She landed beside him, cloak fluttering, somehow looking as regal as dismounting from a noble steed.

Robin leaned over and stretched his cramped calves. Even though they'd had plenty of stops along the river and all the shade anyone could ask for, the flight left him exhausted. Worse, they had barely landed, and he was already feeling warm. The ground wafted heat that seeped into his sweltering soles, made every breath like inhaling furnace fumes. The shade beneath the trees looked tempting.

He drew forth his shadow again, felt the sun rays collapse around him. Much better. The air wasn't as cold as he liked, but at least it wasn't insufferable. Lucina eyed the smoky wisps that darkened his visage, though she said nothing.

Now if only there was an inn to put a roof over his shoulders and a meal in front of him. He knew rest never came so easily, however. The rucksack Robin had carried into Grima's skull might have been heavy, but half its weight had been in the saddles. In terms of actual supplies, the group traveled lightly. They would need to restock during their stay here, and there was little better time than with the sun still up and the stores still open.

Habit compelled him to start on a list of things to buy: canvas to keep the sand out; flint and tinder—Robin had brought an Elfire tome, but that was hardly the appropriate tool for a simple campfire; more jerky… If Lucina had noticed how often he had pilfered jerky from the pack hitched at Stormbolt's side, she hadn't mentioned it.

Stormbolt shifted from his field of vision, kicking up pebbles. Robin looked to find the wyvern lumbering toward the palms, where red fruit hung from branches like baubles.

"If you eat one of those," Robin said, "that's your dinner for today. Choose wisely, friend."

Stormbolt paused to crane her neck toward him. She blinked, then opened her mouth and spat a cluster of embers. The embers fell short, scattered across the rocks, and fizzled.

Lucina hiked around the treeline, surveying the grove. The bloodfruit palms were planted far apart, with reedy trunks that supported a sprawling canopy of fronded leaves. Their branches grew wild enough to interlock with other trees, providing an unbroken stretch of shade that went on for a mile. Somewhere beyond the grove was the sound of water coursing. In all, the place made for a scenic Plegian locale, at least amidst the burnt-beige, light-beige, and brown-beige that dominated the region.

Apparently dissatisfied, Lucina glanced toward the town, a double row of clay blocks as sunbaked as the desert around them. "Do field workers usually retire by this hour in Plegia?"

"Rarely," Robin said. It was still early evening. At least several keepers should be tending to the palms, ready to chase off rogue wyverns from stripping the branches bare. He stepped around Stormbolt for a better look at the grove. His new vantage didn't make much difference: the skinny, sparse trunks had little way of hiding a person, and there wasn't anybody to be seen.

Near the soil's edge, a bloodfruit laid glittering. Robin walked over, then crouched to pick it up. The fruit had a scaly rind that shone like rubies, and when he turned it over in his palm, it felt weighty, full of water. He guessed it had fallen from over-ripeness. Robin scanned the dirt, finding in places a few more fruit, before sighting a wicker basket among some tree roots.

He circled for a closer look. A bloodfruit had tumbled from the basket mouth into the grass, and another one still laid inside. Both had faded to a dull maroon—they must have been left for a week or more. It seemed as though somebody had started picking some fruit, then abandoned the job part way. Or had they been interrupted?

Lucina's soft footfalls trailed to his side. "Look at the trunk," she said. Shifting her hand to Falchion's hilt, she cast around for threats.

Running diagonally across the bark was a score about the length of Robin's arm. It was a clean, deep groove, made by an edge not meant for chopping. Robin smoothed his thumb along the exposed sapwood.

"Does Plegia have a bandit problem?" Lucina asked quietly.

"Everywhere has a bandit problem," Robin said. "It just depends how bad. Regardless, it looks as though nobody has been here for days. Weeks, even. This doesn't seem like the work of bandits."

Where bandits were concerned, there were usually more bodies, and a whole lot more fire. Not to mention, the cut ran well above head height without losing depth or evenness. The culprit had to be one very tall bandit.

Behind them, Stormbolt was sniffing the air. Robin hefted the fruit in his hand, then turned and lobbed it at her. The wyvern, seeing a colourful object sail through the air, instinctively opened her jaws to catch it. The bloodfruit tumbled into her gullet and disappeared with a throaty gulp. Stormbolt cocked her head sideways. Then she narrowed her eyes and growled. Her hind leg raked the dirt, pulling up clumps of undergrowth.

"Right, that wasn't dinner, okay?" Robin said. "I figure by the time anyone misses that one, it'll be half-rotten."

When he turned back, he thought he glimpsed a smile pulling at Lucina's lips. Robin looked again and found only a firm line.

"We should see if we can find anyone in town," Lucina said.

Robin nodded. "Agreed."

* * *

The street—just one, running between two rows of squat buildings—was also devoid of people. Judging by the signage that hung over doorstops, including a cobbler, inn and trading post, this town should have made a common stop for traveling merchants. Robin traced the dirt and found wagon tracks, but they were old. Dust had swept away any recent footprints. The air held an odd moldy smell, apparent now that the grove's ripe citrus scents had fallen away.

"Did the people of this town abandon it?" Lucina pondered.

"I hope not," Robin said. That would be terribly inconvenient.

The townsfolk were perhaps hiding in the buildings, but he didn't want to resort to barging into people's private chambers just yet. Lucina seemed to have the same opinion. They walked along the street-side, passing under one set of eaves to the next. Robin tried knocking on a slab of driftwood that was fitted into a door frame. The rattle felt sturdy. There was something pushed against the door, barricading it from inside. Nobody responded.

He had picked for their first stop what he thought was a well-to-do town, with its fruit exports and some semblance of a marketplace. At least, Riverbend was almost as well-to-do as a town would get in Plegia. Most other villages were little more than a group of huts, where denizens walked around half-naked due to the heat and a shortage of cloth. Not that he had anything personal against poor villages, but they wouldn't have the supplies he needed, and he suspected that the culture shock Lucina would experience from visiting one was better left to another time.

Of course, this place was far from luxurious to someone familiar with Ylisse, where even little cozy Southtown had multi-storey houses and a vibrant market thoroughfare. Here, the buildings were humble, single-tier blocks of clay and limestone. The street's emptiness gave the impression of a graveyard.

Lucina had moved ahead, to a shop of some kind, judging from the window with the wide sill that could double as a serving counter. Barring the window was a grid of scrub branches. She lifted a hand over her brow and peered through the gaps.

Robin joined her. Save for the odd sunbeam filtering through cracks above, the interior of the shop was dark. He could make out shelves of what looked like travel wear: cloaks, shawls, wide-brimmed hats. On one side, belts hung from copper hooks, arranged by size and leather grade. Near the back wall stood a rack of staves that exuded gentle magic. Behind it, a passageway cut a pitch dark block into the clay bricks.

"Hello?" Lucina ventured.

Her greeting was met with silence. Then, beneath the staves, a shape stirred.

"Six eyes," a child's voice said with hushed awe. "You aren't the spirit!"

The shape crawled from behind the rack. It was a girl no older than six or seven. She pushed herself onto her feet, then approached, sandals shuffling against the dirt. She was dressed in a simple linen frock, her dark hair pulled into curling pigtails. When the girl reached the counter, her chin was barely higher than its edge, and she craned her head to look from Lucina to Robin. With a face spotted with dust, she peered at the two of them in wonder.

The girl beamed. "Hi! Are you looking for travel clothes? We have lots of hats, and capes, and"—she turned toward the wares—"stuff!"

"Well, er, hello," Robin said, glancing sideways. He decided to let Lucina do the smiling. She was much better at it than him. "We were wondering why there doesn't seem to be anyone in town."

"Oh," the girl said. "Papa says that people got sick from the heat, so they're staying indoors."

"And where is your papa now?" Lucina asked.

"In the house." The girl giggled and brought a finger to her lips. "He doesn't know I'm here. Do you want a hat?"

"Thanks," Robin said, "but I already have something, see." He pulled his hood over his head, then leaned closer to give the girl a better look.

"Wow, mister," she said, eyes wide with fascination rather than fear. "You look really evil."

He lowered the hood, feeling just a bit admonished. By then, the girl had turned her attention to Lucina. The girl stared for a moment, before drawing in a deep gasp. "Miss, your hairband is so pretty! It's like... a princess!"

"You mean like a princess' tiara?" Robin said.

"No, like a _princess_. A princess!" The girl giggled again. "Fine, I guess you don't need hats. Do you want a charm? Papa says all travellers need good luck."

"That's," Robin said, "a decent idea. Let's see them."

"Sure!" The girl's head bobbed and disappeared from view. There was some rattling behind the counter. She re-emerged, fist raised in a triumphant gesture. Dangling from her hand were crimson-dyed threads that ended in clay tokens shaped like fangs. Each token was carved with swirling eyes, and Robin didn't need to count them to know they numbered six each.

She set the charms on the sill and peered at the both of them expectantly.

"What are these supposed to look like?" Lucina asked.

"Grima's teeth!" the girl said. "Papa had a priest bless them, so I know they're extra good luck. When you want to use one, you prick your finger with the pointy part and make a wish!"

Lucina didn't match her enthusiasm. "I-I see…"

"I'll take two." Robin reached into his side pocket. "How much is that?"

"Uh-um, um," the girl said. Clearly, she hadn't expected to get this far. "One charm is four copper." She counted it on her fingers. "And two is…" the girl continued, lifting one finger after the other, mouthing numbers. She stared at her hands, eyebrows furrowed. The number of fingers was correct. She balled her hands and counted again.

"Eight!" the girl said at last, looking up.

Robin pushed a handful of coins through a gap between the sticks. The girl stood on her toes, straining to collect the money. She palmed at the coins, pulling some to her side of the counter. She took one between her thumb and forefinger, then raised it to the window. Bringing the coin closer to her face, she peered at its portrait, confused. She looked down again. "Hey! Some of these are silver."

"I guess they are." Robin shrugged. "Can I have my charms?"

"Yes, sorry!" The girl put the coin down and pushed two of the teeth as far as she could through the sticks. "Thank you. Thank you very much."

Robin collected the charms and passed one to Lucina. With a measured look on her face, she stowed Grima's tooth in a pocket. He did the same.

"Also, did you say something about a spirit?" Robin asked.

"Mmm," the girl hummed. "I shouldn't talk about it. It's bad luck, you know."

There was a noise at the back of the room. Robin looked up. Appearing in the doorframe was a stocky man. Darkness framed him, and the shade obscured his face. When he spoke, his voice was low. "Kayal, I told you not to play in the shop." He took a step forward. A faint trace of light lit the dark curls of his hair.

The girl spun, but not before Robin saw her pulling her face into a pout. "Papa, you promised I could greet the customers next time."

"Silly bean. There are not cus—" The man's eyes flicked up and caught sight of Robin and Lucina. "Six eyes!"

He coughed. "Ah, I'm sorry, miss, sir. I was not expecting visitors." The man put his hand on the rack of staves, sidestepped it, and made his way toward the front. His gaze fell on the coins scattered across the countertop. "What is this?"

"The nice sir bought charms," the girl, Kayal, said.

"How many?" His next step was longer than the last. "... All of them?"

Kayal set her hands at her sides indignantly. "No, two!"

He took a place beside the girl, pursing his lips. "Little bean, a charm is four copper."

"I knew that."

"Sir," Lucina said. "She didn't swindle us, if that's what you were worried about."

"Ah. If it is as you say, miss. I…" the man seemed momentarily at a loss for words, "thank you." The man blew a breath from his mouth, and some of the tension left his stature. He set a hefty palm on the girl's head and shook gently. "Kayal… I told you. No windows. Go back inside now."

Now that the man had drawn closer, Robin could see the tracks of sweat on his temple, curly dark hair matted with grease. A wild beard curled down his open collar. He wore a tunic that was wrinkled and stained. Like the girl, he looked as though he hadn't washed in some time. His dusty, sweaty face bore lines of worry.

Beneath the man's palm, the girl quirked her head. "But how do we sell things without the window?"

He exhaled, the sound catching in his throat. "Be good. Go inside."

"Fine," the girl said, disappointed. She loosed herself from her father's hand and skipped to the back of the room, skirting round the rack of staves. The shop owner watched until the darkness swallowed her. Then he clapped his hands together and offered Robin and Lucina a strained smile.

"Fate's tide, travelers," the man said. "Welcome to Riverbend. I am Yalfin."

"My name is Lucina." Lucina glanced sideways. "And this is… Robin."

"Robin! Like the prince." Yalfin chuckled absently. "How fine. We don't get many of you visitors now. If I may ask, what brings you here?" As he spoke, his gaze flicked past them, checking the street.

"We were looking to restock on supplies," Robin said. "Flint, tinder, rope, preserved food, and the like."

"Ah. Of course. This is... the right place. Flint and tinder, I can give you. And rope. No need to pay extra. You have more than enough here." He nodded toward the coins, then moved to gather the items: a battered tin container from beneath the counter, a length of rope hanging from the wall. "Are you staying for the night?" Yalfin asked, deftly coiling the rope around one hand into a neat bundle. He set it next to the tinder. Both items were too large to fit through the sticks barring the window, but he didn't comment on it. "We have an inn just farther down the road called The Burrow, with the armadillo sign. If I may recommend you to be quick, sir, miss. It'll be dark before you know."

"Thank you for the suggestion, sir," Lucina said. "There is something I would like to ask. We've noticed that there seems to be a lack of people around this town. Would you know why that is?"

His thick lips twitched. He set his palm on the counter. A dirt-crusted fingernail tapped the surface. "The sun, it has been hot lately. Hotter than any Plegia summer, see. Our grove tenders have taken ill from the heat, but they are tough people. I think they will be fine again in several days. So there is no need for worry."

"I see." Lucina peered into the shop again, at the shelves. "And you sell supplies here, to the travelers that frequent this town?"

"Yes. But I have little that would impress your well-dressed self, miss, and sir…" His gaze slid over to Robin, taking in a first good look. The man's mouth went round. "Oh!"

Yalfin pressed closer to the sticks. His eyes went huge. "Are you a priest, sir?"

Recalling the six purple eyes lining the shoulders of his coat, Robin said, "Technically?"

"First thing. Come in, quickly." The man sidestepped from view, beckoning with a curl of the fingers. Lucina circled the building in the direction he had gone, apparently unbothered by the sudden demand. Robin followed. He heard a latch click. They rounded the corner to find Yalfin poking his head out of a side door. The man waved them over. "Now, hurry!"

Robin and Lucina filed through a narrow threshold, and Yalfin slammed the door behind them. It was like stepping into a steam bath. The shop smelled of leather and unwashed bodies.

The man sucked in air as though he'd been holding his breath. "Oh, Grima's mercy." Yalfin inhaled again. His eyes seemed to water, or perhaps that was sweat trickling around them. "Oh, thank the fates. You must help us."

"Of course we will," Lucina said without sparing Robin so much as a glance. "What ails this town?"

Yalfin's voice lowered. "Please, hear me. A vile spirit has taken hold of our Riverbend. For weeks it has stalked the grove and town, stealing away anybody it finds." He shuddered, then turned to the window as if frightened by what he might see. Nothing was there.

"Have you seen this… spirit?" Lucina asked. "What is it like?"

"Not I. But I hear from one person." He looked back to her, raised his index finger. "She says it is a tall, man-like creature, of ashen skin, who stumbles as it walks. As you can understand, other witnesses have disappeared."

"Then why do you explain it as a heat stroke?" Robin asked. The shopkeeper seemed quick to dismiss that explanation as soon as he saw the eyes on Robin's robes.

The man winced. "They say speaking of it will visit the spirit on you. I did not mean to deceive, only that if it is true, I do not… I do not wish to find out. Kayal, did she say this to you, too? She is only a child, you know, who always wants to play with her friend Omri, but he is..." the man glanced over his shoulder briefly, "gone.

"Since you are a priest, sir, I pray that you can help. It is not safe to venture outside, but if you have not yet sighted the spirit, I hope it is a good thing."

"We haven't seen anything since we arrived," Lucina said. "When was the last appearance?"

"Not in some days, I think." Yalfin's own words seemed to give him a start. "Ah! I do not believe it has fled, sir, miss. We… we do not risk. Not yet."

Lucina raised her hand. "At ease. We will not leave until we ascertain that this creature is gone for good."

"Your words are brave, miss." He smiled, a bit of reassurance softening his features.

Robin put a hand to his chin. "How has the capital not heard of this yet?" Surely even Campari, useless as he was, could have dispatched a squadron to investigate. Riverbend might be a rural town, but it wasn't so remote as to escape the Heartland Guard's notice. Granted, the Guard barely cared about the common villages. They were no Shepherds in any respect.

"Some of us have left to petition the neighbours, if not the capital," Yalfin said. "But I have little hope. I hear from the merchants, before they stopped coming, that our neighbours say we have angered Lord Grima. I believe they will be no help."

 _As if a god cares to play favourites with random villages._

"Still, we try. Kastin, the cobbler, was first. Then young Mar'ze—ah, her mother had disappeared, and that girl was so determined to find help. Neither have returned."

"We didn't pass anybody overhead, did we?" Robin asked Lucina.

She shook her head. "Not that I believe. But the desert is vast. We may have simply gone around each other." To the shopkeeper, she said, "Is there any pattern to this spirit's appearance?"

"In a way. It does not follow you into houses. But we either are taken away or we waste in its shadow, and both may mean death all the same. Some of us leave home, under the guise of night, to fetch water, scavenge what bloodfruit we may find. They say it only comes out in daytime… I am not sure of this. Venturing out is a risk already, let alone trying to confirm such hearsay." He shivered. "I have heard of somebody taken from their doorstep at dusk's end. A hired hand at the inn. Every night, she gave us what food she could. A willful, willful girl, so much like Mar'ze... Taken right before reaching safety. I can only imagine how Anya, the innkeeper, feels."

Lucina was looking at Robin pointedly. He was thinking the same thing. Food wasn't an issue of supply, but distribution.

"Thank you for letting us know of this," she said. "One last thing. Are you able to tell us which buildings have people hiding in them, and how many?"

* * *

Robin whistled a melody of lilting minor notes, the source of which he'd forgotten. It might have been the traveling band in Ferox, or perhaps, the visiting Rosanneans with their lutes at the Northroad inn. The tune didn't sound Ylissean or Plegian.

In his arms was the fallen wicker basket, loaded with bloodfruit. The things were fairly nutritious and mostly water, making them an obvious way of providing relief to the townspeople. Robin hadn't gotten permission to pick them, but he doubted the townspeople would protest. They could worry about the grove when they weren't dying of thirst and hunger.

There had been no signs of any ash-skinned monsters. He did, however, find Stormbolt curled around the trunk of a suspiciously bare palm. The wyvern lounged in the shade, chin resting on her foreclaws. Broken fronds lay scattered around her.

Hearing his approach, Stormbolt raised her head. A leaf slipped off her snout. Her heavy tail swept forward and back, halfheartedly pushing away some of the foliage.

"Doesn't look like you need dinner now," Robin said. "It was going to be boar haunches. Now Lucina and I will need to split that up between the two of us."

"If you say," Lucina said. She had pulled her cloak over one shoulder, and used it as an impromptu sack for bloodfruit. She looked silly, with that cloak bulging in front of her, but she didn't seem the least bothered. Lucina stared toward the town, planning the distribution.

Stormbolt unwrapped herself from the trunk. The overhang rattled, shedding more leaves. She leaped to her feet and complained loudly.

"Do you suppose it's alright to leave Stormbolt here?" Lucina said. "There was a stable in town. We could have seen if it had large enough accommodations."

"I'd like to see that spirit abduct a three-thousand-pound wyvern," Robin said.

"We don't know what it is."

"The spirit?"

"In terms of how much of a threat we're facing." She sighed. "There is no such thing as spirits."

Robin shrugged. "Fair enough. Come on, Stormbolt." He jerked his chin toward the town, then started walking. The wyvern trailed after them, grumbling at the curt treatment.

Back in town, he and Lucina agreed to split up the distribution effort. Riverbend was already parted in half by the street, which made the division simple: Lucina would take one side, Robin the other. Before they headed off, Robin pointed out a few alleys and shaded places to reconvene in case the spirit appeared. There would be no signal. It would likely catch the creature's attention before anything else, and besides, he trusted Lucina to handle herself.

He stopped first at the stable, even though it was at the far end of town. Robin had contemplated not going out of his way, but if Lucina had been worried enough to ask, that was enough reason to start there.

The stable sat against the inn, its stalls shaded by a long set of eaves fixed to the other building. A brick wall ran around its outer perimetres, and the side facing the street was fenced by driftwood beams. Robin wondered if it provided enough shelter. Yalfin had said the spirit wouldn't chase a person indoors, but the stable was open to the outside. Then again, many of the buildings didn't have doors, either, so much as sheets of cloth or a jumble of household paraphernalia to block the way.

He leaned over the fence. There were no wagons in the courtyard, and the stalls were empty. All the better, as Stormbolt liked spooking horses, especially pegasi.

At the inn's porch, shade fell over him in a blissful reprieve. Hanging on the door was a brass knocker. He pulled the ring, let it fall with a sharp snapping sound, then stepped back. That ought to get somebody's attention. He didn't suppose the spirit had ever tried to knock. "Hello! Are you receiving guests? I have a wyvern who needs stabling."

After a period of silence, he heard shuffling inside.

"Who's there?" a woman's voice asked behind the door. The words were muffled, but he could make out a northerner's accent.

"Guests looking to stay the night," Robin said. "Not the spirit."

Another pause. Then things banged against other things, as somebody wrestled their way through a barricade of objects. The door opened partway. There was more scraping. A woman's bewildered face peered out at Robin amidst chairs, shelves, and other furniture.

Behind him came a snort. Before he could react, something struck him on the shoulder, and he nearly spun. The basket slipped from the crook of his arm, but he hugged it back to himself just in time. Stormbolt shoved her head under the porch, tongue lolling excitedly. She was about to thrust her snout through the gap in the door when Robin grabbed hold of her horn. His heels skidded forward. He dug in.

The woman had retreated to a safe distance, but she was grinning. "Boy, I thought I heard you say somethin' about a wyvern! Thought that couldn't be right, hardly anyone has seen hide of the things in years."

Stormbolt finally stopped trying to barge her way in. Robin noticed that a faint aroma of food and ale drifted from the door, which had likely attracted the wyvern. "Don't start chasing anybody, alright?" he said to her. "I want to eat at some point today. I think you do, too."

The woman chuckled. "There's some food left in the cold cellar, and not all that many guests to eat it. If it's just you and the wyvern, we better get 'em behind those gates and come back in quick."

"Food would be great, but for now, I'm just here to get Stormbolt stabled." He tilted the basket toward the woman. "I'll come back around when these are all delivered."

"No, no." She waved the bloodfruit away. "You're not thinking about going out back there by yourself."

Robin shrugged. "I'm not alone."

Her tan complexion paled. "Even worse! Whoever's with you needs to get here, _now_. Do you understand?"

"Against my companion, I'd be worried if I were the spirit." The woman opened her mouth, probably to remark on foolhardiness of his words, but he spoke faster. "You're Anya, right?"

She raised her chin. "That's me. Hostess of this inn."

"Yalfin told me what happened here," Robin said. "To the girl you hired."

"So you know about it." Anya frowned. "And you've still got these daft ideas. Now, I've seen enough needless death to smell another one coming, but if you still want to wander around outside, it's not like I can force you in here. So..."

"We'll be fine. As I said, my companion is out there." He tried a different angle. "See, Yalfin asked us for help, so here we are."

She looked him over, trying to appraise the source of his confidence. "Who are you, anyway? You look like a priest. You a Grimleal?"

"For the sake of this conversation, yes," Robin said. Unlike Yalfin, Anya didn't seem pleased about that.

"You're a bit on the young side to be a priest, aren'tcha?" she asked.

"Maybe I'm older than you think," he responded lightly. It was true most Grimleal were double or even triple his birth age, but he knew her remark was a deflection. "You don't trust priests, do you?"

"Eh." The blunt question took her by surprise. "Well, I can trust that you're here because of Yalfin. He did mention before that we should find a priest to exorcise the place. He's a good man, but a bit on the naive side. For all we know, you're here to finish what that other Grimleal started."

Another Grimleal. That caught his interest. "Oh?"

"Then again," Anya said, "I doubt you're in cahoots, 'cause if you were, you wouldn't show up at my doorstep with a wyvern and a basket of bloodfruit, saying Yalfin sent you." She nodded upward at him. "But yeah. A few weeks back, a priest stayed at my inn for a couple nights. Gaunt skinny fellow, plain black robes."

"That describes most of the Grimleal clergy," Robin said.

"Ha, you said it, not me. At any rate, I never did find out what he was doing here, but he gave me the creepers. Lindta told me she caught him staring at townsfolk a couple times." Anya fell silent for a moment, drawing her lips into a line.

"Lindta was the girl you took in," he guessed.

"Aye," the woman said softly. "Her parents died when she was young, near the tail end of the war. Like them, she always had a bigger heart than she had sense." She blinked, then rubbed her palm over her eye. Robin could tell that from the matronly way Anya spoke about the girl, the innkeeper had treated her as a daughter. "Getting sidetracked, sorry. The priest."

Robin nodded. "You think he had something to do with this?"

"He disappeared, and then the kidnappings started a few days after. I know it sounds like a coincidence. But I've been a hostess for decades, dealt with countless people coming and going. Being at it long as I have, you can tell when someone's bad news. He was."

"I see," he said. "If one of the Grimleal are involved, you can trust I'll have it dealt with."

She squinted at him. "Hold on. You believe me, just like that?"

"Yes, actually." He smiled in what he thought was a reassuring manner. From the way the innkeeper suppressed a cringe, he also gave her the 'creepers'. He supposed that couldn't be helped. "Rest assured, we'll find out what happened."

"Huh, somehow... I feel like believing you on that." She looked from him to Stormbolt, then cracked a little smile, eyes shining with a film of tears. "By the way, you never did tell me who you were."

"Prince Robin, hierophant of the Grimleal, at your service." He patted the wyvern. "This here is Stormbolt. And my companion out there is Exalt Lucina of the halidom of Ylisse."

Anya laughed. "Good one." Neither she nor Yalfin seemed to think the crown prince or the exalt had any business being here. To be fair, it was a perfectly reasonable view. "So, who are you, really?"

"I'm serious," Robin said. Beside him, Stormbolt let out a yowl of agreement.

Anya shook her head, smiling. "You're not like any fellow I've met, that's for sure. All right, Your Lordship Robin. I won't take any more of your time. Let's get that wyvern stabled." The woman pulled the door open wider, then stepped through. "If there's a wyvern around, that can only be a good sign, eh?"

* * *

A bolt of flaxweave hung over the archway of the barber shop. The sheet was dyed umber orange with a white stripe across the bottom, the customary colours of barbers in Plegia; some sort of tradition Robin had never looked into. He freed a hand from the basket and pushed the cloth aside.

He stepped into a cramped room, where much of the space was filled by two chairs. In front of the chairs was a dried up water trough that held some dusty shears. A straw broom leaned in the corner. The far wall had an opening to another chamber, partially covered by a sheet of hay-coloured cloth. He supposed if anyone lived here, they would be behind that sheet. So far, Robin hadn't needed to break into houses, since it turned out people were willing to greet him as long as he identified himself as Not-the-Spirit. He stayed put.

"Hello," Robin called. No response. "Free bloodfruit! Or, not free. I stole them from the grove."

He waited. Bare feet appeared beneath the cloth hems. The cloth shifted slightly, as though somebody had brushed it from the other side. A lanky young man emerged. His eyes grew wide when he saw Robin and the basket. For a moment, he stood there gabbering.

"Who? Whuh? You… you're not from this town." His voice was dry. The young man swallowed. "Do you realize? You're either very brave or very mad to have been wandering outside, picking fruit."

"Well, greetings to you, too. I'm Robin."

"Ahhh. I see. Picking fruit _and_ going by the name of the prince. Mad it is." The man took a tentative step closer, extended a hand in caution, as if fearing Robin might suddenly vanish. He paused, examined his palm. He began clutching at his own cheeks and collar. "Wait, the prince? Am I the mad one? The first person I see in days is... the prince?"

He had a feeling his trip around town would be a long one. "Yes, about that..."

* * *

"You _are_ him," Yalfin said. "You really are the prince."

"Finally, somebody believes me," Robin said.

The shopkeeper collapsed onto his knees. He raised his hands as if to return the bloodfruit he was holding. "Forgive my lack of respect, my lord! I… I didn't recognize you."

"Please don't do that." It was a little too close to Grimleal mannerisms for comfort. There might be very few people Robin respected in this world, but when someone groveled before him, Robin had no choice but to look down on that person. And looking down on someone always provoked some disgust in him. It wasn't a feeling he wanted to entertain right now.

"But my lord, you are the prince!" Yalfin insisted, though he rose to his feet. "How can I not pay my prince the proper respect? Especially when you have come to our Riverbend in person to help us?"

"I have an idea. You can pay your respects to the exalt instead," Robin said.

"The exalt?" Yalfin repeated the foreign word, confused. "But, the exalt, that is Ylissean royalty."

"Correct."

Yalfin's eyebrows only furrowed more. Then a look of realization came over him. "Your companion," he breathed. "Six eyes. I did not…"

Robin tilted his head. "I'm surprised the outfit didn't give her away."

At the back of the store, a voice squealed, "I knew it!"

Yalfin turned. Kayal stood in the shadowed door frame, and clasped her hands over her mouth in dismay at being discovered.

The shopkeeper called, "Kayal, come here."

She shuffled over reluctantly, expecting a reprimand. But when she reached her father's side, the man smiled broadly, and patted her on the head. "See here, this is our prince, the greatest man in all of Plegia. His Highness and the exalt Lucina will make outside safe again. What do you think of that?"

Kayal broke into a smile twice as wide as her father's. "I knew it!" she said again. "Her tiara is like a princess! I said it." She looked at Robin. "And Mister Prince Robin is really nice, even though he looks evil."

Yalfin's face dropped. "Kayal…"

* * *

Robin's last stop was a cottage. It was a fair abode as far as houses in the village went, having an actual door, windows that were shuttered, and a row of potted marigolds on one sill. The flowers were surprisingly not dead.

He rapped his knuckles on the door. He thought about leaving the basket there, since only three of the fruit remained. Then a woman's voice called from inside: "Leave me alone, spirit. I've done nothing but fast and beg pardon from Grima. What more do you want? Don't tell me you've come for my flowers."

Footsteps shuffled closer. The door swung open. An elderly woman stood in the threshold, face puckered in a grimace. She clutched in one trembling hand a slipper, and looked very ready to slap Robin with it.

"Hold on," he said. "Here." He thrust the basket toward her, revealing the contents.

The slipper lowered. "Oh, hello there, young man," she said, expression brightening. "What have you brought? Is that bloodfruit I see?"

Robin found himself sitting at the dining table, a pot of cactus tea and a cup in front of him.

By the window sill, the woman leaned over a wood basin, one of the bloodfruit in hand. She held a paring knife and sliced at the rind. "Just a moment here." With every cut, juice spilled into the basin—crimson, like the fruit's namesake. Pieces of rind curled around her hands, then fell away.

Robin took a sip of tea. It was aromatic; perhaps desert flower petals had been added. As the seconds passed, he felt increasingly like he shouldn't be here. Lucina was certainly finished with her round by now.

There was the sound of chopping, then a pause. A platter of prepared bloodfruit joined the teapot on the table.

"And there you are," the woman said, smiling.

"The bloodfruit is for you, ma'am." Before he could catch himself, Robin smiled back. But either her eyesight was poor, or she was truly unbothered by his smile, which tended to lie somewhere between devious and evil.

"Don't be silly," she said. Robin knew what she really meant was 'rude'. If guests had brought food, it was rude not to share with them, just as it was rude to refuse food as a guest. "You've come all this way to bring these. Have one yourself."

For a delicacy, bloodfruit was horrendously tart. He needed no further explanation as to why the chefs at the banquet had drowned the dish in syrup. Then again, Robin supposed he didn't like many foods that were considered delicacies. They tended to be more about rarity or regional significance, and less about taste. In spite of this, he put another slice of stringy fruit into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, tried not to grimace.

Seeing the look on his face, the woman said, "Have you never had bloodfruit? Sweet meadow-child." She laughed.

Robin rose, startling the woman and nearly toppling the chair. He snatched the chair's crossrail just in time and tucked the seat under the table. The woman's lips began forming some sort of question, but he was already heading toward the door.

"Thank you for the tea," he said over his shoulder.

His veins buzzed with a familiar energy. Dark magic. From somewhere in the town outskirts came a grating sound, like rusted hinges.

"I'm afraid I have some errands to run now."


End file.
